Breathe Your Life Into Me
by zelda49
Summary: Tim catches an attempted murder case and finds himself trying to earn the victim's trust as he investigates. But Miami's most reserved CSI learns that trust must also be given, and that bonds can sometimes be formed between two complete strangers.
1. Preliminaries

A/N: Even though I'll soon be up to my eyeballs in work at my real job, I'm going to go ahead and begin this little tale because I'm already pretty excited about it. It'll be partly a casefile (which I've never written before), but mostly a character-driven story full of drama and friendship, and possibly some romance. It's a bit more ambitious than other things I've attempted, so all (polite!) reviews will be greatly appreciated.

Enjoy!

* * *

He sat across the street from her little house, perched high in the driver's seat of the van he'd painted up to resemble those of the local cable company. He knew her routine, or more correctly, that she didn't really have one until she returned home for the evening. The time of her arrival often varied, but once inside the house she had stayed in every night that week. He could see her through her windows with his binoculars, even through the curtains thanks to heat-sensing technology: fixing dinner, making phone calls, watching TV, working at her computer.

And he smiled.

At eleven o'clock her lights went out, and he knew she was going to bed. A bit later than usual, he noted, but it was a Friday night. If she remained true to form, she'd probably watch TV in bed for an hour or two before drifting off to sleep. He pictured her long brown hair framing her face on the pillow, her blue eyes closed serenely, her lithe frame at rest beneath the covers.

That was his opportunity, when the TV shut off and her bedroom was completely dark. That's when he would make his move. That's when he would take her life.

———

Tim Speedle sighed as he pulled to a stop in front of the little house surrounded by crime scene tape and police cars. It was early in the morning—four a.m. he saw, glancing at his watch—and he should have been asleep.

"I _was_ asleep," he grumbled to himself, retrieving his kit and camera from the back of his Hummer. "Until the night shift ran out of criminalists."

He sighed again and shook his head a little, trying to clear his mind. Walking up the driveway and ducking under the tape, he met up with Frank Tripp, the detective who had caught this case.

"Hey Frank," he greeted the man. "What've we got?"

"Twenty-eight year old female, asleep in her bed," the detective replied, "until someone attacked her. There's some scratches on the lock on the back door…he may have picked it to gain entry. Bloody footprints, too, way too big to belong to the vic."

"Murder weapon?"

Tripp shook his head. "We found a bloody knife a couple of blocks from here, but it isn't the murder weapon."

Tim drew his eyebrows together. "How do you know?"

"She wasn't murdered," the detective clarified. "She survived—on her way to the hospital now." He led the way into the house, continuing to talk as he moved. "Paramedics have been through here, me, and the first officer on the scene. Other than that we've been waiting for you."

The CSI frowned. "Great." He made his way to the bedroom where the attack had taken place, carefully scanning the floor for evidence, lest he step on something vital to the case. Pausing in the doorway, he gave the room a once-over, noting instantly the large amount of blood on the sheets. He glanced over his shoulder at Tripp. "You said she survived?"

"Yep. Couldn't believe it myself. She even managed to call 9-1-1," he said. "Couldn't do much but moan into the receiver, but it was enough to get rescue out here."

Tim's eyes widened in surprise. "She was still conscious?"

Tripp pressed his lips together. "Not for very long. First officer said she was about ten seconds from death when the paramedics got to her."

"Well, if she makes it, we'll have a witness."

"I'll call the hospital, get an update," Tripp agreed, "after we finish canvassing the neighbors."

"Have 'em bag her clothes and personal effects, too, Frank," Tim reminded him. "And find out when she might be able to talk."

The detective nodded one last time and headed for the door. "Will do."

———

It was several hours before Tim snapped off his latex gloves and rubbed his eyes. Reinforcements had come to the scene in the form of Calleigh Duquense and the processing had gone faster after that, but it had still been a lengthy job.

Having carted all their collected evidence back to the lab, they now were wading through it all again, logging it in and sorting it all out. The gloves had come off when Tim's eyes began to blur, and he stood up, stretching his cold muscles, working the feeling back into the part of his foot that had fallen asleep.

"Long day?" a voice called, entering the little room where the two CSIs worked.

"Hey Frank," Calleigh smiled at the detective.

Tim swiveled around. "Hey, how's our victim doing?"

"She's out of surgery now—in intensive care, but the hospital says she's conscious. Wanna take a ride?"

"You okay logging the rest of this in?" Tim asked Calleigh.

"Yeah," she replied cheerfully. "I'll get Delko to help me."

Tim sighed tiredly. "Okay," he told Tripp. "Just let me get my kit."

A camera hung around Tim's neck when he and Tripp found the victim's hospital room thirty minutes later, his kit in one hand as he reached for the door with the other.

"The doc said she's in pretty good shape for what she went through—no major organs or blood vessels hit."

"That explains why she was conscious for so long," Tim answered. "She bled a lot, but she bled slowly. Did the hospital staff collect any evidence from her before she went into surgery?"

Tripp shook his head. "No trace, if that's what you mean. They were more concerned with saving her life."

"But she's awake now? Able to talk?"

"Yep. Still kinda groggy, they said, but lucid."

Tim pushed the door handle and entered the room slowly, studying the victim as she lay in her hospital bed. She was clad in the standard-issue gown with a blanket pulled up to her chest, I.V. running from her left hand, oxygen tubes in her nose, pulse-ox monitor clipped to her right index finger to show the level of oxygen in her body. A nurse was carefully adjusting the cardiac leads that were attached to her chest, producing an electronic replica of her heartbeat on the screen beside her bed. Her eyes were closed and Tim thought she was asleep, but her lids fluttered open at their footsteps.

"Allyson Brooks?" Tripp asked, following Tim inside.

She licked her cracked lips before answering. "Yes," she managed.

"I'm Detective Tripp, this is Tim Speedle, Crime Scene Investigator. We'd like to ask you some questions about your attack, if you feel up to it."

She nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was asleep," she croaked, her throat still dry from the breathing tube that had been inserted for surgery. "I was dreaming that someone was holding me down, and there was this horrible pain in my abdomen," she told them. "When I woke up there was a man…straddling me…holding my hands above my head with one hand…stabbing me with the other."

"Did you get a look at him?" Tripp asked.

Allyson shook her head gingerly. "I-I don't know. It all happened so fast…"

"Can you tell us anything about him at all?" the detective prompted.

She thought for a moment, trying to organize her memories of the last twelve hours. "His hair was light colored…blond, I think…it was lighter than the shirt he wore."

"Could you tell how tall he was?"

She shook her head again, frustrated with her inability to remember. "It's all a blur…I don't know…"

"It's okay," the nurse interjected, sensing her agitation. "The hangover from the anesthesia hasn't gone away yet."

Tim had been watching Allyson as she spoke, and took the opportunity to agree with the nurse. "That's right," he told her. "You might remember better in a couple of days." That seemed to calm her a bit, so he continued with the interview, knowing the answer to the next question but asking it anyway. "Did you struggle with the man that attacked you?"

She nodded. "As hard as I could."

"Would you mind if I examined you for evidence?" he asked. "He may have left something behind that will help us catch him."

She nodded again slowly, and watched him place his kit and camera on a chair, taking out a pair of latex gloves and putting them on. He gently inspected her wrists where she'd been held, along with the small cuts and bruises on her hands and forearms, under the watchful eye of the nurse.

"Defensive wounds," he told Tripp, reaching for the camera. He snapped a few pictures, then retrieved a small package from his kit. "I'm going to scrape under your fingernails," he said, focusing back on Allyson.

She followed his movements with her eyes as he ran a wooden stick under each of her nails, dropping it onto a sheet of paper and folding it into an envelope.

Tim grabbed his camera again, holding it at chest level. "I need photographs of your other wounds, too," he explained. "Now, _I_ can do it, but if that makes you uncomfortable Detective Tripp and I can step out into the hall while the nurse photographs you."

"It's fine," she responded with a slight wave of her hand. "Do what you need to do."

Tripp cleared his throat. "I think I'll step out anyway," he decided, making his way to the door.

When it had closed behind him, Tim nodded, signaling the nurse to draw back the blanket. Pulling his camera up to his eye, he focused on Allyson's legs, clicking a few times at the cuts there. He paused, lowering the camera a moment. "The nurse is going to lift up your gown, now, okay?"

Allyson smiled a little, despite her pain. "It's okay," she assured him.

He chuckled in reply, raising the camera into position again and adjusting the focus. The deepest stab wounds were contained in her midsection and had already been stitched, so comparing them to the knife they had found would be difficult, if not impossible. He took the pictures anyway, documenting each of her injuries for the case file.

"Okay," he said quietly when he finished. He turned respectfully away, tending to his camera while the nurse covered Allyson. By the time he had packed everything up, she looked exactly as she had when he had entered the room. "Thank you," he told the nurse. "And thanks for not bandaging those before we got here."

"Sure," the nurse responded. "You need anything else?"

He thought a moment. "No," he decided. "I'm almost done."

"Okay." Shifting her gaze to her patient, she continued, "I'm going to get the gauze and antibiotic cream so we can cover those wounds now," she said sweetly. "I'll be right back."

Allyson nodded one more time, watching her exit the room and pull the door shut behind her.

Tim brought her attention back. "There's just one more thing I need." He peeled back the paper wrapper of a cotton swab and held it up where she could see it. "I need a sample of your DNA so we can tell which evidence came from you, and what might have come from your attacker."

She opened her mouth and he deftly sampled the inside of her cheek, slipping the swab inside a cardboard box for transport.

"Thanks," he said, dropping it into his kit and snapping it shut. He quickly gathered his things and faced Allyson again. "Detective Tripp and I will probably be back in a few days to ask you some more questions," he explained. "When you're memory is better."

"Okay." She reached out and touched his arm, grasping his sleeve weakly between her fingers as her eyes met his. "Get this guy."

Tim pressed his lips together, reading the frustration that was returning to her face. This time, though, it was mixed with fear.

"We'll do everything we can," he promised.


	2. Following the Evidence

A/N: Chapter 2...finally! For those of you expecting an interesting case, my apologies. It's pretty cut and dried, because 1) that isn't the focus of this piece and 2) that isn't my thing (love to read/watch 'em, though!). Hopefully, though, the science and proceedure make sense and are at least logical if not strictly correct, and the characterization is right. As always, let me know what you think--your constructive comments help me improve :-)

* * *

Back at the Crime Lab for his next shift, Tim moved resolutely down the hall on his way to check on the DNA evidence he'd collected at Allyson's house. Halfway there he ran into Lieutenant Horatio Caine, his boss. 

"Hey Speed," the older man greeted him. "How's the Allyson Brooks case going?"

"I'm about to find out," Tim replied. "Valera paged me in DNA…if she found something useful, then it's going well. If she didn't, then it's not."

"And the victim?" Horatio asked.

Tim blinked a few times, trying to decide how to characterize Allyson. "She's scared," he said. "But she held herself together pretty well when Frank and I interviewed her yesterday."

"Good," Horatio responded. "So she might be of help with an identification."

Tim shrugged. "Maybe. She was still pretty foggy from the attack and the anesthesia from the surgery when we talked to her."

"Then you might have to re-interview her," Horatio suggested.

His subordinate nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. Do you think you can handle it alone from here on out?"

Tim nodded again. "Yeah. The big part was collecting and logging all that evidence in, and that's done now. I can follow up on it and process whatever's left. Why?"

Horatio frowned. "Well, I need Eric and Calleigh for a murder in the Gables. Someone broke in and killed a woman in her own home."

"Sounds like Allyson's attack," Tim observed. "You think it's the same guy?"

Horatio shook his head. "No, I don't. This was in a different geographic area, with a different M.O.—this guy used a gun and robbed the place on his way out."

"Allyson wasn't robbed that we know of, or shot," Tim said.

"Right," Horatio agreed. "So you stay on that case. And keep me posted."

"You got it." Tim headed off, back on his original path to the DNA lab, now working as the sole CSI on the Brooks case.

Maxine Valera, the DNA analyst on shift, looked up when he entered her lab. "Just the man I wanted to see."

"Tell me you have something," he responded, resting his palms on the counter.

"I have something," she smiled. Retrieving a file she had set aside for him, she pulled out the results of her testing. "Found your victim's blood all over the knife and the sheets," she began.

"That's not really a surprise," he replied, a note of sarcasm in his voice. "She was stabbed four times in her bed."

"Yes," she continued, "but hers wasn't the only blood I found." She handed him the results sheet, pointing to it as she spoke. "There was an unknown male bleeder, too. I ran it through CODIS and got a name."

She swiveled a computer screen toward him and he leaned closer, squinting a little as he studied it. "Aaron Polanski," he read aloud. "Priors for assault in South Dakota, last known address in Wyoming." He straightened up, his forehead wrinkling in thought. "What's he doing in Miami?"

Valera shrugged. "I guess you can ask him if you find him."

His only reply was a cynical smirk as he copied down the information. Once on the move again, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed Detective Tripp. "I got a suspect in the Brooks case," he explained. "But his last known is out of state. Think you can find him?"

On the other end of the line, Tripp nodded. "If he's in Miami, I'll find him."

———

While Tripp tracked down Aaron Polanski, Tim made himself useful in the Layout Room going over the personal effects the hospital had collected from Allyson. He opened the paper bag he had brought back with him after her interview and carefully removed its contents, spreading them out on the light table. There was an elastic hair tie, a simple spaghetti-strapped cotton nightgown, and a small gold heart threaded through a delicate chain.

The hair tie and necklace wouldn't yield much information, Tim knew, so he concentrated on the nightgown. He held it up in front of him, getting an overall view of the garment, before laying it back down. Grabbing a magnifier, he went over every inch of material, looking for anything that didn't belong. The holes from the knife were obvious, and he collected samples of the blood that had soaked through on the chance that the assailant had bled on Allyson when he cut himself. Putting the swabs aside, he continued his search with the magnifier, feeling an uneasy twinge in the back of his mind.

_This is weird_, he thought. _I've gone through personal effects before, but those victims are usually dead. I don't meet them, interview them, before I process their stuff._

He shook himself mentally and focused on the task at hand. He tape-lifted some black fibers near the bottom hem, and discovered a few short, light colored hairs scattered over the front.

"Allyson did say she thought the guy was blond," he mumbled aloud.

Tim collected the hairs, seeing the roots still attached and making a mental note to take them to Valera when he was finished.

"She must have pulled his hair," he told himself. His eyes scanned the whole garment again, and he pressed his lips together. The blood, the ragged holes from the knife, the fibers, the hair, together with the cuts and bruises on Allyson's body added up to one thing. "She fought hard."

The satin trim along the neckline of the nightgown shown in the light from the magnifier, and Tim felt himself becoming angry. _She was asleep…she was just lying in bed asleep, and this animal tried to kill her._

He closed his eyes briefly, taking a beat to make sure he remained professional. When he opened them again he was calmer, but just as determined.

"Okay. I've got the evidence. Let's put this guy away."

———

A few hours later, Tim was seated at a table in an interrogation room with Detective Tripp leaning against the wall behind him. Opposite the two law enforcement officers sat Aaron Polanski, a smug expression on his face.

Tim flipped through the file Tripp had brought, glancing from the suspect to his mug shot taken in South Dakota. The accompanying paperwork stated that he had attacked two women on separate occasions, each approximately the same height and build, same hair color and length, each with a knife. The first woman had been unable to identify Polanski as her attacker and, because her injuries were minimal, he had pled guilty to misdemeanor assault. The second victim had more serious wounds, but they were not life threatening and Polanski had again copped a plea, serving a year in jail. He had moved to Wyoming shortly after his release, where he dropped off the radar before fleeing to Miami.

"So you like to cut up brunette women," Tripp commented, locking eyes with the suspect.

"If you're referring to my previous encounters with the police, then I can see why you would think that," Polanski answered easily.

Tim looked skeptically at him. "You didn't do this?" he asked, laying out pictures of the previous attacks.

Polanski smiled. "Nope."

"Then why did you take a plea in each case?" Tripp continued.

The suspect shrugged noncommittally. "Small towns…once people think you're guilty, you might as well be."

"You're saying you couldn't get a fair trial," the detective clarified.

Polanski shrugged again.

"Well, you won't have to worry about that here," Tim informed him. "Miami's a big city, with lots of people to sit on juries."

"For what?"

Tim collected the photos from the old case files, his eyes narrowing as he presented the shots he had taken of Allyson in the hospital. "For this."

"Who's she?"

"Allyson Brooks," Tim said. "Do you know her?"

The suspect shook his head, staring at the pictures. "No."

"Well _somebody_ broke into her house and attacked her while she was sleeping," Tim explained. "With a knife, Aaron…just like the one you like to use."

Polanski leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on the photos. "I didn't do that."

"We got DNA that says otherwise," Tripp told him.

"It's not mine," he retorted.

Tim tilted his head slightly to the side, squinting at the suspect. "Like we've never heard that one."

"It's not," Polanski insisted, finally looking up. "The DNA in the system that comes up with my name is really the DNA of the man that attacked those women in South Dakota."

"We can straighten that out right now," Tim said. Near his left hand was a still-packaged sterile cotton swab, and he reached for it now. "Open up."

For a moment, Polanski looked as though he would refuse, but then he thought better of it and allowed Tim to run the swab inside his cheek. "There. Happy now?" he shot back with a hard look.

The CSI stared him down. "I will be when it comes back a match to our evidence."

A uniformed officer escorted Polanski out of the room to a holding cell, and Frank dropped into the vacated chair, eyeing Tim across the table. "You think he's our guy?"

"I know he is," Tim answered. "That crap about the DNA in the system not being his…they would have tested him in South Dakota. I'll have Valera run this just to be sure, but yeah, that's the guy that attacked Allyson."

Tripp frowned. "My spidey sense is tingling 'bout that creep, too. Did you see how excited he got when you showed him her picture?"

"Yeah," Tim replied grimly. "I noticed."

"Well, let me know what you get from that swab," Tripp continued, rising from the chair. "Let's get this case wrapped up."


	3. Second Interview

A/N: A bit more with the case here, and a little more interaction with out two principle characters. Again, the proceedure may not be letter-perfect, but it should be logical and plausible...and hopefully entertaining :-)

* * *

Tripp appeared at the lab bright and early the next morning, finding Tim in the break room guzzling a can of soda.

"Speedle."

"Frank," the CSI answered, tossing the can into the recycle bin. "Gettin' an early start today, are we?"

The detective ignored the mocking tone in Tim's voice. "Did the DNA come back from Polanski's swab yet?"

"Checked it first thing," Tim confirmed. "The DNA in the system from South Dakota matches the DNA from Polanski…which matches the male DNA from the samples we collected from Allyson's house and clothes."

"So he's the bastard that tried to kill her."

Tim nodded. "He's the bastard that tried to kill her."

"Okay, so we have the how," Tripp continued. "But we don't have the why yet, and Polanski's giving us nothing." He paused a moment, considering their options. "Let's see if we can get any answers from our victim."

"Back to the hospital?"

Tripp nodded. "Back to the hospital."

———

"Did you contact her next of kin?" Tim was asking as he and Tripp moved down the familiar hallway.

"Yeah," the detective replied. "Parents are flying in today. It was the first flight they could get—should be here in a couple of hours."

"Good." _No one should be alone after an attack like that._

"Hospital said they collected a sexual assault kit, too," Tripp added. "After we left last time."

"And?"

"Nothing…she wasn't raped."

Tim let out the breath he'd unconsciously held. "Good," he repeated.

"Thank God for small favors, eh?" Tripp commented.

Tim nodded. _Definitely._

He found the door they were looking for and knocked, hearing a faint "come in" in response. She was lying in bed, hooked up to the same medical equipment, in the same position she had been in during their first visit. This time, though, she looked more alert, raising her eyebrows questioningly when they entered the room.

"Do you remember us?" Tim asked.

Allyson nodded a little. "I remember your faces…that you're law enforcement."

"Detective Tripp, CSI Speedle," Tripp reminded her, following Tim in. "We'd like to ask you some more questions if we could."

"Of course," she answered softly, still weak from her injuries. "I know I wasn't much help last time."

"Actually, the evidence we collected from you helped a lot," Tim told her. "We just have a few things to clear up now."

Tripp took his cue. "Do you remember anything new about the attack?"

Allyson pressed her lips together. "I remember him kneeling over me…he was wearing black pants and a black shirt…and gloves, latex gloves. I remember the latex rubbing on my wrists when he was holding me down."

"Okay, good," Tripp encouraged her.

She thought some more, straining against the fear and pain the memories dredged up. "I remember…I remember he seemed surprised when I tried to get away."

"Surprised how?"

She frowned. "He stopped for a second…and he looked worried."

"Worried?" Tim wondered.

Tripp knew what she meant. "Like he was afraid he couldn't handle you if you were conscious."

Allyson nodded. "That fits, I suppose."

Tim felt his expression harden, but kept his thoughts to himself for the time being. Instead he asked another question. "Do you remember his face?"

"I tried," she explained. "I've _been_ trying, but it's not coming to me."

"Maybe you're trying too hard," Tripp suggested.

"Too hard?"

That triggered an idea in Tim's mind. "Actually, yeah," he said. "You can concentrate too much on things sometimes, and push information away from your conscious thoughts."

"Like with the name of the band playing on the radio," she replied. "It'll be right on the tip of your tongue, but no matter how hard you try you can't remember who they are."

"Exactly," he told her. "So let's try this…close your eyes and try to relax."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"

"Just trust me on this, okay?" he ventured, pulling a chair beside her and lowering himself onto it. Behind him, he could feel Tripp's eyes on him, wondering, too, what he was doing.

She studied his face, judging his expression, his body language. After a long moment, she closed her eyes and lay back against her pillow. "Okay."

"Try to relax," he repeated. "Take a couple of slow, deep breaths."

She did as he instructed, resting one hand lightly on the bedrail and the other at her side.

"Now, I want you to describe me."

"Oh I get it," Tripp spoke up. "You get the memory working on something easy to warm it up, then you try to remember the thing you couldn't remember."

"That's right," Tim agreed. "And since you were just looking at me, Allyson, and you're pretty calm at the moment, it shouldn't be too hard to give a decent description of me. Then we can try one for your attacker."

"That makes sense," Allyson decided. "Alright, let's see……black pants…royal blue button-down shirt……short, dark hair—curls up a little at the base of your neck……fair skin…round cheeks…five o'clock shadow…dark brown eyes. Tired eyes," she observed. "You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"

Her question surprised him. "Very perceptive," he told her. "Do you know what I ate for breakfast, too?"

Her eyes blinked open and she saw the gentle teasing in his expression. "That's good, CSI Speedle," she responded quietly. "Trying to make me feel comfortable so I won't freeze up."

He lowered his gaze to the tiled floor for the briefest of moments, a chagrined expression on his face, before lifting his eyes back to hers. "Is it working?" he asked.

She responded with a small smile. "Yes."

"Alright," he replied, relieved. "Then let's try your assailant."

Tripp pulled out his memo book and pen as Allyson closed her eyes again. Blowing out a breath, she searched the far reaches of her mind, replaying the attack. "Light hair," she began. "Blond…short, like a…like a crew cut, but not quite that short. Dark pants and shirt, black maybe…" Her hand gripped the bedrail tighter as an image formed. "Small eyes, close together……flattened nose, like he'd been hit in the face when he was little…" Her fingers curled around the stainless steel despite the oxygen monitor still clipped to her index finger, and her face betrayed the pain she felt, both physical and emotional.

Sitting closest to her, Tim was struck by the changes in her demeanor. She went from tranquil patient to frightened victim before his very eyes, struggling to maintain control. He flashed back to her nightgown, picturing it in his head covered with blood and ragged slices, and felt his outrage returning. _That son of a bitch!_

"…and thin lips," Allyson remembered. "He was grinning at me when I woke up, before I tried to get away."

Tripp caught Tim's eye and nodded. _That's him._ Aloud, he asked, "Did you recognize him at all?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed as though she were examining the picture in her mind. "I've never seen him before."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?" he continued.

She sighed harshly and opened her eyes, training them on the detective. "I'm a high school teacher from Buffalo, Detective Tripp. Before this week, the biggest problems I had were fending off sunburn and getting a good price on school supplies."

"How 'bout Aaron Polanski?" he tried again. "That name ring any bells?"

She pressed her lips together, attempting to regulate her breathing as she turned the name over in her thoughts. "No," she decided. "I don't know any Aaron Polanski. Is he the guy that attacked me?"

"We can't discuss the details with you just yet," Tripp answered. "But we'll be in touch."

Tim took a deep mental breath and rose along with Tripp, stealing one last look at Allyson. "Try to get some rest," he told her, a kind note in his voice.

"I will," she nodded, offering what tried to be a smile.

The two men waited until they were a safe distance from her room before they resumed discussing the case.

"Sounds like our guy," Tripp noted.

"Yeah," Tim agreed, his lips curling in repulsion. "And he was worried when she fought back. He wanted her unconscious because he wasn't strong enough to kill her while she was awake and resisting him."

Tripp frowned hard. "He's a real prize all right."

"But at least he's stupid," Tim countered. "He left behind a mountain of evidence—this guy's history."

———

The uniformed officer sat Polanski down in a chair across the table from Tim in the interrogation room. Frank had resumed his position behind the CSI, a not-so-subtle sneer on his lips as he stared at the prisoner.

"You ran my DNA?" Polanski asked.

"Oh we ran it alright," Tim informed him, pulling the results sheets from a file folder. He laid them out in front of the suspect and pointed as he spoke. "This one is you. This one is the DNA from South Dakota. And this one is the blood and hairs we collected from Allyson Brooks." He watched Polanski's eyes as they darted from one piece of paper to another, letting the reality of the situation sink in. "Notice how they're all the same."

Polanski shook his head, glancing defiantly from Tim to Tripp. "I didn't do it," he insisted.

"Well, sport, we don't need your confession," Tripp told him, contempt dripping from his voice. "Every piece of evidence we have says it was you without a doubt."

Tim retrieved the DNA results and stacked them back in their folder. "That's right," he seconded. "And felony attempted murder carries a minimum sentence of thirty years in Florida. You could even get life without parole. Either way, you're going to prison for a very long time."

Trip nodded to the uniformed officer who stepped forward and hoisted Polanski from his chair. "Aaron Polanski, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Allyson Brooks. You have the right to remain silent…"

Instead of fear, or anger, or any of the other typical reactions Tim and Tripp had seen on the job, Polanski merely smiled in response, a confident smile that spread slowly over his face as he was escorted from the room.

"A long time," he chuckled after the Miranda warning. "That's what they said before."

Tripp scowled back. "Get him outta here," he ordered, disgusted.

Tim silently watched him go, the words reverberating around in his head. _That's what they said before. _"What do you think he meant Frank?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"'That's what they said before.' What's that all about?"

Tripp waived his hand dismissively. "Probably referring to his stint in South Dakota. I'm sure they told him the same thing there, and then they weren't able to deliver. We will, though."

"Yeah," Tim agreed absently.

Tripp headed for the door. "Alright then, I'm gonna go book this dirtbag and get him locked up. You can tell Allyson he's off the street."

Tim nodded, still stuck on Polanski's parting words. "It's gotta be South Dakota," he muttered aloud, rising from his chair and making his way out of the room. "It's gotta be."


	4. Search & Seizure

A/N: This is the last of the mostly-proceedural sections, I think, although I know you all have been enjoying Tim's reaction to the case. I will be happier to get into the less-technical parts, myself, because this so far has been out of my comfort zone. But you have to do that once in a while, don't you? It's the only way you grow :-)

Thanks to all of you that have reviewed, too--the support has been wonderful and very much appreciated!

* * *

The arrest of Aaron Polanski gave the police the right to search his home, a search that didn't take very long. The small, dingy apartment was sparsely furnished and had only two closets, resulting in a complete and thorough search that lasted less than thirty minutes. Only one paper evidence bag had been delivered to CSI, but going through it in the Layout Room, Tim quickly realized that the items contained inside were the last nails in Polanski's proverbial coffin. 

He retrieved a plastic package from the paper bag and examined it from every angle, turning it over in his hands. He recognized it as a large zip-loc bag, and it seemed to house other zip-loc bags. Photographing the bundle, he then put the camera aside and pulled the zip closure open, peering inside.

His eyes went wide at what he found. There was a black pair of pants and a black shirt, both stained with blood, a pair of shoes whose treads were coated with blood, a matching set of socks, and a pair of bloody latex gloves, all individually sealed in their own plastic bags.

"The dumbass preserved every single piece of evidence for us," Tim said aloud, the disbelief evident in his voice.

As he had with Allyson's personal effects, he laid each item carefully on the light table, pausing for a moment to take in the big picture. Then he found a magnifier and went over each article slowly, photographing and collecting as he moved. He pulled fiber samples from each garment, finding both long brown hairs and seafoam green fibers scattered across the black.

"Looks like Allyson's hair," he said to himself as he worked. "And that green is the same color as her nightgown."

There were cut marks on the latex gloves, too, that were consistent with cuts Tim remembered on Polanski's hands. A quick phone call to PD assured him that the suspect's booking photos documenting his condition before he was locked up would be sent over by the end of the day. While he waited, Tim retrieved the crime scene photos he had taken at Allyson's house, comparing the tread on the shoes to the bloody footprints Tripp had found. The shoes, he noted, were too new to have a wear pattern, but the size and tread definitely matched his pictures.

With trace collected, he continued on to DNA, swabbing the bloodstains on the clothing, shoes, and latex gloves, then swabbing the inside of the gloves for what he knew would be Aaron Polanski's skin cells.

"Like we didn't have enough on him already," he muttered. "But more evidence only makes the case that much stronger."

"How strong is strong?" a voice asked from the doorway.

Tim looked up to see Horatio's inquisitive expression. "Airtight," he told his boss. "Not that there was any doubt before Polanski's arrest that he was the guy—this is just piling it on."

"Good," Horatio replied. "I don't want him getting out of jail, ever."

Tim frowned, thinking of Allyson. "Yeah, you 'n me both."

As though reading his mind, Horatio asked, "And how's Miss Brooks doing?"

"She's okay," Tim told him, his frown fading. "She's getting stronger by the minute. She's still in intensive care, but the doctors say she's healing up real well, and she should be out of the hospital soon."

"Good to hear," Horatio answered. "How is she holding up emotionally?"

Tim's features softened unconsciously. "When I said she was getting stronger by the minute, I wasn't just talking about her body," he explained. "She's still as scared as she was when Frank and I first interviewed her, but she's fighting it."

"You think she'll win the fight?" Horatio wondered.

Tim responded without hesitation. "Yeah. It'll be a long one, but yeah. She'll win."

Horatio smiled a small smile. "Good." In the next breath he was out the door, heading back out to his own cases and leaving his subordinate alone again.

The younger man repacked each piece of evidence as it had originally come to him, placing it all inside the large zip-loc bag, then into the paper evidence bag. He quickly sealed the bag with red tape, scrawling his initials across it in black marker.

_Polanski's toast_, he thought. _He's getting at least thirty years, and if he ever has a parole hearing, I'll be there with this evidence to make sure he does it all._

He snapped off his gloves and threw them in the appropriate container, resting his palms on the edge of the light table. "Then why the hell does he think he's not going to jail?" he wondered aloud. "He knows about everything we found before the search, and he has to know that we have his clothes now. But he kept insisting…'that's what they said last time'."

He straightened up and stripped off his lab coat, feeling compelled to dot all the i's and cross every t, for his peace of mind and for Allyson's.

———

Swabs and tape-lifters in tow, Tim swung by the Trace Lab to confirm that the fibers he had taken from Aaron Polanski's clothing matched those he had found at the scene. Every single one of them did—the black fibers on Allyson's nightgown belonged to Polanski's shirt and pants, and the seafoam green fibers on Polanski's clothing were identical to the cotton of Allyson's nightgown.

"That's one i dotted," he told himself.

Still awaiting the booking photos, he headed for DNA, dropping off the swabs he had collected and leaving instructions to be called as soon as the results were in. But he already knew what they would be.

"It's her blood," he said aloud. "So that'll be a t."

Stopping at the evidence locker long enough to place his materials in the box marked "Brooks", he then moved toward a little used part of the lab in search of an out of the way computer terminal. Following this next lead was technically under the prevue of Homicide rather than CSI, but he wanted to rule some things out before going to Tripp with his hypothesis.

He found a quiet room, away from the hustle and bustle of the busier parts of the lab, and made himself comfortable in the lone chair that sat in front of the computer station. Flipping his memo book to a clean page and laying it beside the monitor, he logged in to the appropriate database and began his search.

"_That's what they said last time."_

Polanski had been taunting them, and Tim was determined to find out why. "Let's start with South Dakota," he decided, his fingers moving deftly across the keys. "That's where he attacked those women."

Moments later, Polanski's records popped up on screen. Tim scanned them for new information, but found only what Tripp had already shown him. Both attacks had left just enough evidence to connect Polanski to his victims, and he had cut a deal in each case. Nothing else seemed suspicious or out of place.

Satisfied that South Dakota was not what he was looking for, Tim sat back in the chair wondering where to go next.

Then it came to him. "Wyoming," he remembered, leaning forward again, "is where Polanski lived after he got out of jail in South Dakota."

A search for criminal records in the name Polanski in the state of Wyoming turned up nothing, but Tim wasn't convinced he was wrong. Instead, he pushed forward, intent on digging deeper. Polanski's last known address had been in the tiny town of Bill, out in the most rural part of Converse County. A few more keystrokes brought Tim the number for the Converse County Sheriff's Office and he flipped open his cell phone.

It took the receptionist a few minutes to find an officer that had heard of Aaron Polanski, but eventually Deputy Hart picked up the line.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Speedle?" he asked congenially.

"I understand you're familiar with a man named Aaron Polanski," Tim replied.

On the other end of the line, the deputy nodded. "Yep. Questioned him…" He flipped a file folder open and scanned the pages in front of him. "…May of last year. Julia Jackson didn't show up for work one day, so we went out to her place to look around. Found her stabbed to death in her bed. We had a witness that saw a man matching Polanski's description walking down the road a half mile from her house after the attack, so we brought him in."

"I checked the database," Tim said. "There's no record of an arrest."

"That's right," Hart conceded. "We searched the victim's property, but didn't turn up a weapon or any other evidence. We did collect blood samples from the scene, but we didn't have enough to compel a sample from Polanski so there was nothing to compare it to and they were never analyzed."

"How large was your perimeter?" Tim asked.

The deputy sighed. "There's something you gotta understand about this part of the country, Mr. Speedle. The town of Bill is in the middle of the Grasslands, in a very, _very_ rural area. We searched for five days straight, but came up with nothing: no clothes, no knife, no other blood, nothing. There was just too much ground to cover and not enough manpower to handle it."

"Okay," Tim answered, trying a different approach. "Let me ask you this. Was your victim about five and a half feet tall, long brown hair, blue eyes?"

There was a pause while the deputy checked. Finding a picture of Julia Jackson, he nodded into the phone. "Yeah, that's her. How did you know?"

"My victim in Miami fits that description, and so do the two women Polanski attacked in South Dakota before he got to you," Tim informed him.

"Two more in South Dakota, eh?" Hart returned. "If he did those, and Julia Jackson, and your vic, then he's a serial. And he's escalating."

Tim shook his head, even though the deputy couldn't see him. "Not for long. We've got an airtight case here."

"You got a DNA sample from him?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "And he's all over the crime scene."

"If I can send down our sample from the Jackson house, do you think you could run a comparison?" Hart asked. "I don't know if it would even be enough for an arrest up here, but Julia's family deserves to know who's responsible for her death."

"I'll let our analyst know it's coming," Tim responded. The two men said their goodbyes and he flipped his phone shut, leaning back in his chair. "So that's it," he concluded. "Polanski got away with a murder in Wyoming and thinks he's gonna do it again in Miami."

He began closing out the windows he had opened on the computer, yesterday's interrogation playing in his mind.

"_You're going to prison for a very long time."_

"_That's what they said before."_

Tim frowned at the computer, where Polanski's mug shot from South Dakota stared back at him. "They might have _said_ it in Wyoming," he told the picture. "But we _mean_ it."

* * *

A/N: I have never actually been to Wyoming, but I do know that the town of Bill exists in a rural part of the state. If you're from there, or have been there, and know that I have the wrong idea about the place, just pretend I picked some other rural part of the state ;-) 


	5. Off Duty

A/N: I'm loving this Labor Day weekend...lots of time to sit and write :-) And so I bring you the next section of our story, complete with more of the character interaction I'm most comfortable with. Having said that, it better be good, lol! At any rate, enjoy this and I'll see what else I can do for you all this weekend.

* * *

Tim found himself walking through the familiar sliding doors of the hospital entrance after his shift ended, stopping first at the reception desk to check Allyson's new room assignment. Following the directions the nurse gave him, he wound his way through the corridors and up the stairs, watching the room numbers ascend until he found the right one.

He halted just beyond the open door, hearing cheerful voices coming from inside and wondering if he should go in. He wanted to see Allyson and give her an update on the case, but didn't want to interrupt her time with whoever was visiting. It wasn't long, though, before one of the voices called out to him.

"Are you looking for something?" a man asked, rising from his chair and coming to the door.

Tim shook himself a little. "Uh, some_one_, actually. Is this Allyson Brooks' room?"

Instead of an answer, he got another question. "Who are you?"

"Tim Speedle," he replied, motioning to the badge on his belt. "Miami-Dade CSI."

Inside the room, another voice called out. "Dad, it's okay."

The man glanced back a moment, then relaxed and offered his hand. "John Brooks," he introduced himself. "I'm Ally's father."

Tim shook his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," John replied, showing him into the room. "This is my wife Peggy, and Ally's friend Amanda," he continued, gesturing to two women sitting at Allyson's bedside.

"If this is a bad time, I can come back," Tim hedged, glancing from one face to another.

Allyson answered him, sitting up in her hospital bed. "It's okay," she repeated, noticing that his hands were devoid of kit and camera on this visit, and that he was unaccompanied by Detective Tripp. "Come on in."

He moved a few more steps into the room, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets. "I, uh, have some news for you, about the case."

"Have you made an arrest?" Peggy asked hopefully.

Tim nodded. "We did," he told her. "We searched his apartment this morning and found the clothes he wore when he attacked Allyson."

Amanda spoke up then. "So the case is solid?" she asked.

"Very," he assured her. "We have so much physical evidence on this guy that there's absolutely no doubt he's the one."

"What about bail?" Allyson wondered, her voice trying to be firm. "Will he be able to get out on bail?"

Tim shook his head. "Not on an attempted murder charge, and not with what we have on him."

Peggy reached over and took her daughter's hand, squeezing it tenderly, the relief evident on her face. "Good," she whispered.

"Do you know anything about a trial yet?" John wanted to know.

"Uh, no," Tim replied politely. "That's for the lawyers to decide. In fact, almost everything from here on out is for the lawyers, but it's pretty straightforward."

The relief quickly spread from Peggy's features to those of Amanda and John, and Allyson even managed a small smile. "See? So everything's going to be fine," she promised them. "Why don't you guys take a break and go get something to eat now. You've been here all day."

"I'm not leaving my baby alone," Peggy protested immediately.

Allyson put on a patient expression. "Mom, I won't be alone. The doctors and nurses are all here, right down the hall if I need anything. And you haven't eaten anything since you got here."

Peggy shook her head adamantly. "No. You being alone was what got you in trouble in the first place. I'm not going anywhere."

Allyson looked to Amanda and her father for help, but both seemed to agree with her mother. _But they need a break, _she thought. She opened her mouth to insist again, but closed it when Tim spoke up.

"She won't be alone," he said matter-of-factly. "I'll stay here and visit with her until you three come back. You can get something to eat, walk around a little, whatever you need to do." His eyes met Allyson's in search of approval, and he found it glinting back at him. Returning his gaze to Peggy, he raised his eyebrows expectantly at her. "Okay?"

She stared back at him, evaluating his trustworthiness. After a long moment, she relented. "Alright." She allowed John and Amanda to escort her from the room, making sure to catch Allyson's eye one more time. "We won't be long…"

"Take your time, Mom," she responded encouragingly. She waited until her family was out of earshot, then turned her attention back to Tim. "I'm sorry about that," she said. "I'm an only child…"

"…and they haven't left you alone for more than five seconds since they got to Miami," he finished, making his way to the chair Peggy had just vacated and dropping into it.

She sighed softly and nodded. "They're afraid for me, and it makes them feel better when they can see me with their own eyes."

"That's normal," he told her. "I was the same way after a friend of mine was hurt in an accident in high school." His eyes moved to a spot over her shoulder as he remembered. "Our families told me over and over again that he was alive, but I didn't believe it until I saw for myself."

Light silence passed between them before Allyson spoke again. "You didn't have to come all the way down here to tell me about the case, you know," she told him. "You could have just called."

"I know," he replied. "But I heard they moved you out of intensive care, and I wanted to see how you were doing." He paused, his dark eyes searching her blue ones. "So, how are you doing?"

She started to give him the standard "I'm fine" answer, but stopped short at the concerned expression on his face. "I…I don't know," she said instead with a discouraged sigh. "Not as well as I think I should be."

"You look tired."

She smiled a little. "Very perceptive," she replied, echoing his words to her at their last interview.

"Are you sleeping okay?" he persisted. The dark circles under her eyes were accentuated by the pallor of her skin, providing him with the answer to his question, but he wanted to hear her to say it out loud.

She pressed her lips together. "Not really," she confessed. "There is always light somewhere and people nearby, so that helps me feel protected, but most of the time I'm too jumpy to sleep." A hard frown appeared on her lips. "When I do manage to fall asleep, it's a restless sleep—I toss and turn, wake up a hundred times a night…and I usually have nightmares."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her intently as she continued to talk.

"I can't stop thinking about him," she continued, dropping her eyes to her hands in her lap. "Now that I know his face, I can't get it out of my head and I feel so helpless… That monster took control of my life away from me, and I don't know how to get it back."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I made you remember his face for the description…"

"It isn't your fault," she interrupted, finding his eyes again. "You were just doing your job. And yeah, I'm afraid, but at least I know who I'm afraid of. It was worse when I couldn't remember."

"Here," he said, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He glanced around the room until he found a pen, then quickly jotted something down before handing her a business card. "My cell number is on there if you ever want to talk. And that's my home number on the back, too."

Allyson accepted the card and stared at it, the edges of her lips pulling downward. "I don't want your pity, CSI Speedle."

"It isn't pity," he declared. "I know you have your family, and even if you didn't you're strong enough to handle this alone. This is just an offer so you don't have to. And call me Tim," he added. "I'm not real big on formalities."

She tilted her head slightly, evaluating his words. "Alright, Tim," she replied, deciding he was sincere. "Thank you for the offer."

He studied her a moment, wondering if she was merely placating him. When he was satisfied that she wasn't, he leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. "So you're from Buffalo, huh? I grew up in New York, too…"

———

Tim's next shift landed him a case where the victim was a man involved in a hit-and-run, requiring a trip to the morgue to see Dr. Alexx Woods, the county coroner. He slipped on a lab coat and made his way to the body on her table, listening to her findings and asking questions in the easy exchange the pair had always had with each other. When they were finished, instead of thanking her and heading back to the lab, he remained still, his eyebrows drawn together in thought.

"Hey Alexx, can I ask you something?"

"Sure baby, what's on your mind?" she replied.

He frowned. "What do you know about PTSD?"

"Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder?" she countered, confused. "I'm no expert, but I know the basics. Why?"

"I went to see Allyson Brooks yesterday in the hospital, to tell her about the arrest we made, and she mentioned that she wasn't sleeping well, that she felt helpless and jumpy," he explained. "I though knowing we arrested her attacker would make her feel better, and maybe it did, but she's still so scared."

Alexx followed his train of thought. "And you think she might be developing PTSD."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Well, it doesn't usually develop this soon after the traumatic event, but it can," she told him. "The difficulty sleeping, the jumpiness, and helplessness, those are normal responses to her attack, and they may take some time to fade. It's when symptoms don't fade that you start thinking PTSD."

"Is there any way to prevent it?"

She searched her brain for the best way to explain it to him. "It's like a cold, Timmy," she told him. "There are certain things you can do to protect yourself from getting one, but you can never be one hundred percent inoculated."

"Okay," he responded gamely. "So what do you do to protect against PTSD?"

"The victim needs to feel safe," she said gently. "That's the best way to combat it. If she feels safe and has a good support system in place, she's less likely to have further problems." She turned back to the body on her table and pulled the sheet over him. "Of course, trying to feel safe after someone has broken into your home and stabbed you is going to be easier said than done."

Tim sighed heavily. "Yeah." He paused a moment, thinking hard, before bringing his attention back to her. "Thanks Alexx," he said, a grateful note in his voice.

She watched him walk across the autopsy theater, returning to his deep thoughts. She didn't know exactly what he was planning but she had an idea, and a smile crept over her face as she went back to work. "Take good care of her, sugar."


	6. Tulips

A/N: I thought I would get to this one sooner, but this past week was so much busier than I anticipated. At any rate, here it is: a lighter moment for our pair, who--as some of you noted in your reviews--are already getting close. Enjoy!

* * *

Three days later, Allyson was released from the hospital into the care of her parents and best friend. Rather than take her back to her little house—the scene of the crime—her father volunteered to fetch some things for her while the two women took her to Amanda's townhouse and settled her in the spare bedroom. Waiting for her there were several floral arrangements from well-wishers: the bouquet of cheery daffodils from her parents, the basket of wildflowers from her colleagues at work, the teddy bear holding a pink carnation from Amanda, the vase of lavender roses from her neighbors. 

On the windowsill near the bed sat another arrangement, this one a living, growing plant. Tulips, Allyson noticed—bright red ones streaked with yellow and orange so that the petals resembled flames. They were just like the tulips she had planted along the side of her house, the ones that required so much care to survive in the Miami heat. Tucked in between the stalks was a rectangular card, and Allyson carefully plucked it from the greenery, catching sight of the Miami-Dade Police Department logo in the corner.

"Tim Speedle, Crime Scene Investigator," she read aloud, her lips curving into a smile. Flipping the card over, she found his home phone number printed on the back, just as he had done at the hospital. Underneath the number was a single word: _Anytime._

She propped the card against the pot, admiring the tulips again, feeling a little less vulnerable then she had walking out the hospital doors. "Thanks, Tim."

———

Tim was standing in the Trace Lab gritting his teeth. The hit-and-run case he'd caught was proving to be harder to solve than he had first thought. There was headlight glass in the victim's wounds, but it had traced back only to a compact car manufactured sometime in the 1990's.

"Just my luck this perp is driving the _one_ crappy old car in all of Miami," he fumed. "And the search came up bone dry—jackass is probably a damn tourist."

His entire morning had followed the same pattern: just when he thought he was on the right track with a piece of evidence it would turn out to be a dead end; he'd find a suspect, only to discover he or she had a solid alibi. It was enough to make him want to chuck something across the room in frustration just to hear it smash against the wall.

In his pocket, his cell phone rang and he sighed heavily as he pulled it out. "Who the hell is calling me now?" he demanded. Flipping it open, he could barely keep the irritation out of his voice. "Speedle."

"Hey Tim." It was Allyson.

His tone instantly softened. "Oh, hey," he replied. "I was expecting someone else."

"Someone you obviously don't like," she answered good-naturedly.

"No, it's not that," he replied apologetically. "It's just been a long morning."

"If this is a bad time I can call you back later," she told him, suddenly afraid she'd caught him at an inopportune moment.

He moved away from the glass he'd been analyzing and sat down on a stool. "No, it's actually a good time. I was just about to take a break."

"Excellent."

He heard the smile in her voice and his mood lightened a little. "So I hear you were released from the hospital."

"I was," she confirmed. "I'm staying with Amanda for a while, but it seems a lot of people knew that already."

"Really?" he asked innocently.

"Really," she repeated. "There were a bunch of get-well flowers waiting for me here, including this amazing tulip plant that looks remarkably like the ones I had in my garden."

"So it got there okay," he responded, relieved.

On the other end of the line, Allyson's smile widened. "It's more than okay. It's beautiful, Tim. How did you ever find tulips in Miami?"

"I know a guy," he told her cryptically.

"You know a guy?" she asked, amused. "He must be some kind of miracle worker—I brought those down with me from Buffalo when I moved here a few years ago. Tulips don't exist in the state of Florida."

"It's too hot here," he agreed. "And they don't like the humidity. How did you even manage to get them to grow here?"

"I refrigerated the bulbs," she explained, "so they think they're in the ground up north during the winter. Then, every few weeks when the plants die, I dig up the bulbs from the garden and plant the cold ones. It's the only way I could get them to bloom, and even then they don't last very long."

He pictured her on her hands and knees in her garden, covered in dirt. "That's a lot of work."

"So was finding a living one for me," she countered. "Thank you for going to all that trouble. You really didn't have to."

"Actually, I did," he said sheepishly. "I, uh, accidentally stepped on one of yours when I was processing your house. Crushed it completely."

She chuckled. "Oh, so this is a guilt gift," she teased gently.

"Well…yeah, kind of," he hedged, running a hand over the back of his neck. "But I thought you might like something that was familiar, too. I figured you went to a lot of trouble to get those tulips here, so there was probably something special about them."

_That was sweet_, she smiled to herself. Aloud, she answered, "There is something special about them—my grandmother always had them in her flowerbeds back in Buffalo, so they remind me of home."

"Then I did good," he said proudly.

His statement elicited a laugh from her. "Yes, you did good."

"I meant what I wrote on the card, too, Ally," he continued, becoming serious again. "You can call me anytime."

"I know," she responded softly. "Thank you for that, too."

There was a pause before he cleared his throat and answered her. "Uh, yeah," he said gruffly, wishing he could find better words for her.

Standing near the windowsill in Amanda's spare bedroom studying his tulips, she understood. "I should let you go," she decided. "You have work to do, and I bet your break is about over."

"Yeah," he conceded, letting out a breath. "I do have a few more things to do today."

"Maybe your afternoon will be better than your morning."

She sounded optimistic and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Here's hoping."

They said their good-byes and he flipped his phone shut, replacing it in his pocket and rising from the stool. Standing in front of the glass he'd been working on, he felt a renewed sense of energy, ready and willing to take another shot at finding the driver in his hit-and-run case.

"That break really helped," he said to himself. _And maybe it wasn't just the break,_ a voice in the back of his mind added.

He repackaged the glass, tearing off a strip of red evidence tape to seal the envelope, turning that thought over. The voice was right, he realized. The few minutes away from the job had helped calm him down, but that it was Allyson on the other end of the line contributed to his new mood, too. Despite the circumstances under which they met, he and Allyson were becoming friends, real friends. In her most vulnerable state because of the attack, she had been reluctant to trust anyone, yet she was trusting him, both with the investigation and with herself. He, in turn, discovered he was becoming quite comfortable around her, a rare occurrence for a man who generally preferred to spend his time alone.

He sighed heavily, tapping the evidence envelope against his the back of his hand. _I _am_ comfortable with her_. He stood in front of the counter, mulling that over for several moments, a distant look in his eyes.

His ringing cell phone snapped him back to the task at hand and he fished it out of his pocket. "Speedle."

"It's Bernstein…I got a lead on the hit-and-run…"

———

Across town, Allyson stepped away from her windowsill and gingerly made her way into the living room where her father sat on the couch scanning the day's newspaper.

"Hi sweetheart," he greeted his daughter.

"Hey Dad," she smiled, lowering herself carefully onto the cushion beside him.

He folded the paper and draped his arm across the back of the couch. "Who was on the phone?"

"Tim Speedle," she answered.

"The CSI investigating your case? Did he have an update?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head. "I called him to thank him for the flowers. We didn't even talk about the case."

Her father frowned. "Honey, you should be resting, not worrying about stuff like that," he chided gently. "Your mother and Amanda can take care of the thank-yous."

"It's okay," she responded. "It doesn't hurt when I make a phone call, and they don't take a lot of energy. Besides, I'm bored. I can only watch so much TV, you know." _I need to keep busy so I don't think so much about the attack._

He smiled gently, slipping his arm around her shoulders and squeezing them affectionately. "I know, but you need to be careful. If you overdo it, you'll take longer to heal, and I know you don't want that."

She let out a frustrated sigh. "No."

"Alright then. Let's get you back into bed, huh?"

She pressed her lips together, wondering if he had heard anything she'd said. Rather than argue, though, she complied with his request. _He's just trying to take care of me, after all. And he's doing it because he loves me._

Allyson allowed her father to lead her back to the spare bedroom and help her into bed. He handed her the book she had been reading and hunted down the remote control for the television, offering to fix her something to eat if she was hungry. Nodding with a gratified smile, she accepted and watched him hustle out of the room and into the kitchen.

While he was gone, she listened carefully for sounds of concealed distress coming from her father as he prepared her snack. He was having trouble dealing with her attack, she knew, more so than her mother and Amanda. He followed the case closely in the papers and on TV, and had seen the pictures of her house right after the attack. He had been the one to go inside the house to get her clothes and other things, too, and had observed the blood stain on her mattress, the scratches on the outside lock. Despite the fact that Crime Scene Clean-Up had already been through, she knew he had seen enough to form a picture in his mind about what had happened to his little girl that night.

When he returned a few minutes later she was smiling again, accepting the bowl of soup he'd heated up in the microwave. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her eat it, smiling in return, but she could see the anxiety hidden in his face.

"_Something familiar" Tim had said—something familiar to make me feel better. _She took bite, surreptitiously eyeing her father. _Dad always liked those tulips of Grandma's. Maybe their familiarity will help him, too._


	7. Lineup

A/N: More concerned Tim for you today...and I must confess, this is my favorite chapter so far. It practically wrote itself--I sat down at the computer and in a very short amount of time I had the first draft, presto! Just like that. I almost didn't even have to think--my fingers just kept typing. When I read the finished product I thought "wow, I really like that!"...and hopefully you will too :-)

* * *

Horatio snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, scanning the visible parts of the lab for Tim. Turning a corner, he poked his head into the Trace Lab and found his CSI bent over a microscope.

"Speed."

"Hey, H," Tim replied without lifting his eyes from the scope.

Horatio frowned, searching for the right words. "Speed, I just got off the phone with the prosecutor's office. They, uh…they want to do a lineup with Aaron Polanski."

Tim straightened up. "That's Allyson Brooks' attacker."

"Mmhmm."

Tim studied his boss's face, looking for any sign that he might be joking. He found none. "You can't be serious," he protested. "We've got a mountain of solid physical evidence on this guy—there is absolutely no doubt that he broke into her home and stabbed her four times. We don't need Allyson to ID him."

"Yes, I know," the elder man replied understandingly. "But juries like eyewitness testimony. They understand it, they're comfortable with it. And if she—a victim conscious during her attack—doesn't identify him, they're going to wonder why."

"The description she gave us in the hospital matches Polanski to a T," Tim persisted.

Horatio nodded. "Yes, but you and I both know that a description is not the same as a positive identification."

"So the State's Attorney is gonna make her come in and go through the whole attack again in her mind, just so he can make some jury feel better?" Tim could feel the heat rising in his face, his hands balling up into fists.

Horatio shifted his feet, making sure to look his subordinate in the eye as he spoke. "If the jury is sure, this guy never sees the light of day again. And that's the goal, isn't it? So he can't hurt anyone else."

"But to put her through that when we don't have to?" Tim continued, his voice rough. "It isn't right, H, and you know it."

"She's a resilient woman, Speed. You've told me so yourself a number of times."

"She is," Tim acquiesced. "But that shouldn't mean she has to suffer more just because she can handle it."

Horatio shook his head. "I agree with you, one hundred percent. But unfortunately, that isn't the prosecutor's position."

Tim's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Can I at least be there with her if she wants me to? Her parents are a wreck, and that friend of hers, Amanda, isn't much better off."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Speed. You're the lead CSI on her case…"

"PD does lineups, though," Tim interrupted. "I'd be totally hands-off for that, anyway." Horatio opened his mouth, but Tim kept going without giving him the chance to talk. "Come on, H., you know how hard identifications are for victims—Allyson's going to need someone to be there for her no matter how strong she is. And the three people that care most about her in the world are too fragile to support her. If the State's Attorney is going to compel her cooperation, I want the chance to be there with her if she needs me."

Horatio studied Tim, noting the hard set of his facial features, the stiffness of his posture. Frowning again, he made a decision. "Alright," he said. "If she wants you there, you can be there. I'll fix it with the prosecutor."

Momentarily confused at his small victory, Tim squinted at Horatio, looking for the catch. When he realized there wasn't one, he relaxed a bit. "Thanks."

"But you're wrong about one thing," Horatio added, making his way out of the room.

"What's that?"

He smiled kindly at the younger man. "There are _four_ people that care the most about Allyson Brooks, not three."

———

That evening after his shift, Tim found himself standing on Amanda's front porch, ringing her doorbell.

When Allyson opened the door, she saw the expression on his face and knew something was wrong. Inviting him inside and leading him into the living room, she steeled herself for the blow. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

His surprise at her ability to read him registered only briefly before he pushed it to the back of his mind. "We need you to come in for a lineup," he told her, keeping his voice even.

She stared blankly back at him. "What?"

"You need to come down to the police station and identify your attacker," he clarified.

She continued to stare, the wheels now turning in her mind as she processed his words. "I…I have…to face him…again?" she asked slowly.

He touched her arm, gesturing for her to sit down on the couch and taking a seat beside her. "You'll be in a room with a one-way window, just like you see on those crime shows on TV," he explained. "Six guys that all have the same general description will walk in to a room on the other side of the window, but they won't be able to see you. All you have to do is tell the detectives which one of the guys is the man who attacked you."

"I don't know if I can do it," she replied quietly, her head bent in contemplation.

"Yes you can," he answered. "Hey, look at me." Hooking a finger under her chin, he lifted her eyes to his. "Yes you can," he repeated firmly.

She saw the anger in his eyes, directed at the scum that had almost robbed her of her life. But she could also see faith there, his confidence in her, and she took comfort in it. "Thank you," she smiled softly.

His forehead wrinkled in response. "For what?"

"For not treating me like a child, like I can't take care of myself," she continued. "My parents and Amanda have been great, and they try so hard to make sure I'm okay, but they don't really know how to behave around me since the attack. So they treat me like a little girl, or like a…like a _victim_. You never do, though."

"You're a strong woman, and that's how I treat you," he replied simply, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. "Look, you told me that you felt like this guy had taken control of your life away from you. The lineup is a way for you to get some of it back. Yeah, it's gonna be tough. But you're tougher."

She smiled again, a small, appreciative smile. "Okay."

"You'll do it?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "I'll do it. You're right—this is a way to get control of my life back, something I can do to help myself." She was silent for a moment, visualizing the identification in her mind, before she spoke again. "Can…can you be there with me? Will they let you do that?"

He nodded, thankful that he had won this concession, at least, from Horatio. "If you want me there."

"Even though you know who he is? You interrogated him."

"As a CSI, I won't have anything to do with the lineup; that's for the detectives to setup. So I can sit with you before you go in, and I can be in the room with you when you make the ID. I'll have to stand in the back, where you can't see me or pick up any type of signal from me, but I can be there."

The relief was evident on her face. "Good. I want you there."

"Okay," he said. "Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. I'll pick you up at eight thirty…unless you'd rather have your parents or Amanda take you."

"No," she responded. "This has been hard enough on them already. I don't want to make it worse."

"Okay," he repeated, rising from the couch. "I'll be here in the morning. Try and get some sleep tonight."

"I'll try." She rose as well and nodded. "You too."

He slipped out the door and across the street, climbing behind the wheel of his Hummer. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Me too."

———

Tim pulled into the driveway at the appointed hour the next morning, hoping his restless night didn't show too badly on his face. _If she sees that I'm nervous, it's going to make her more nervous. And she's got enough to worry about. _He rang the doorbell and tried to look encouraging when she answered it.

"Ready?" he asked.

Allyson pressed her lips together with tight resolve. "As I'll ever be."

The ride to PD was quiet, with only the sounds of the road and the music on the radio to break up the silence. Tim drove steadily along, glancing out of the corner of his eye every so often at Allyson in the passenger seat, trying to assure himself that bringing her in was the right thing to do. He noticed the distinct pallor of her skin, her hands resolutely clutching her purse in her lap, the distant look in her eyes as they watched but did not register the scenery flashing by the window. _She's doing okay_, he told himself. _Not great, but okay. Calm._

When they arrived, he pulled into a parking space and helped her from the vehicle, her wounds still tender and the drop from the Hummer to the pavement a long one. Once on the ground, she looked into his dark eyes, gathering herself and drawing strength from him. He waited a moment, never breaking eye contact with her, until she gave him a little nod.

"Okay," he told her. "Here we go."

He guided her inside the vast building and through a series of corridors, stopping when they reached a doorway adjacent to a black metal bench. Motioning for her to sit, he followed suit beside her.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now," he answered, "we wait. The six guys will come in through a door from another hallway. When everything's ready, someone will come out and get you."

She nodded, fixing her gaze on the wall opposite her and taking slow, deep breaths to combat the tremors that began to manifest in her hands. Wordlessly, he reached over and took one of those hands, clasping it reassuringly in his. He didn't look at her, didn't even steal a peripheral glance, but he felt her hand grip his securely and the trembling begin to diminish.

Mercifully, it wasn't long before Detective Tripp appeared. "Showtime."

Allyson took one more deep breath and let it out slowly, smiling inwardly when Tim squeezed her hand. _He really thinks I can do this. _Glancing from him to Tripp, she nodded her consent. "Okay."

She rose from the bench, releasing Tim's hand, and entered the lineup room flanked by the two men. Behind her, she heard Tim move to the back of the room, off to the side with the prosecutor and Aaron Polanski's attorney, while Tripp shepherded her to the window.

"Now you're sure you haven't watched the news or read a newspaper since your attack?" he asked clearly, so that both lawyers could hear.

"That's right," Allyson answered resolutely. "I was there. I don't need to read about it in the paper."

That seemed to satisfy the detective. "Six men will come in to the room on the other side of this window," he explained. "I'll have them face the window, turn to their left, turn to their right, then face the window again. If you see the man that attacked you, write down the number he's wearing on this," he handed her a small pad of paper and a pen.

"Okay," she repeated, taking the paper and pen. Allyson faced the window and watched as six men, all approximately six feet tall with blond hair, filed into the room on the other side of the glass. When they were all inside, Tripp instructed them to turn first left, then right, then back to their starting positions. She went down the row, studying each one individually, trying to fit one of them to her memories of the attack.

When she got to the man wearing number four her hands began to shake, more violently this time than they had in the corridor. She knew instantly that this was the man that had tried to kill her. The terror she had felt that night came surging back, and she found herself unable to make her fingers hold the pen correctly.

Tim saw the panic in her body language, his eyes narrowing as the shaking spread from her hands to the rest of her limbs. He commanded himself to remain still, knowing that if he went to her he'd compromise the lineup and hamper the chances of putting this creep away, no matter how much evidence they had against him. Instead, he fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, willing Allyson to stay strong. _You can do it, Ally, I know you can._

She reacted then as though she could hear him, tearing her eyes away from the window and focusing instead on the pad of paper. She forced her fingers to grip the pen properly and wrote down the number "4", looking up for Detective Tripp.

"That's him?" he asked, taking the paper from her.

Her voice was more firm than he'd anticipated, her determination reclaiming her from her fear. "That's him."

Behind her, she heard Tim blow out a breath he'd been holding in anticipation. He didn't know yet who she'd identified, but he didn't care. She had made it though.

"Okay," Tripp replied. "Thank you for coming in." He flashed the note pad to the two lawyers. "That should do it."

Allyson turned, searching out Tim and smiling with weak triumph when she found him.

His expression was laced with relief as he walked toward her. When he reached her he took her hand again, the warm pressure comforting them both. "Home?" he asked.

She felt the energy draining out of her and closed her eyes, bowing her head against his shoulder. "Home."


	8. Aftermath

A/N: This one is a continuation of the previous chapter. To say more than that would give too much away, so read on McDuff...

* * *

A call out later that day had Tim and Calleigh prowling the scene of a double murder in search of any evidence that might point them to the killer. As they worked, moving carefully around the property, Calleigh glanced intermittently at Tim out of the corner of her eye, noting how much more tired he looked today than he normally did. And she knew why.

Not waning to put it off any longer, she motioned him to come closer. "Hey, Tim, can I talk to you a minute?" she asked.

His expression remained neutral, having no idea what she wanted. "Sure."

She walked him subtly away from the other personnel at the scene, toward the end of the driveway in front of the house. _No one else needs to hear this._ "I'm just…I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

She shifted her gaze to the tops of the trees behind him, searching for a friendly way to phrase her thought. "Well, you seem to be taking the Allyson Brooks case to heart."

"So?" His eyebrows drew together defensively.

"So you're making it personal," she continued gently. "I know that live victims are easier to become attached to—they haunt us more sometimes than the deceased ones do—but your involvement in that case is well past professional now."

He stiffened in response. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"No," she agreed slowly. "But Tripp said you were comforting her pretty familiarly this morning at the lineup. And that's not the first time you've been with her off duty." She leveled her gaze at him, making sure his eyes met hers. "You know you can't be personally involved, Tim."

He replied with an exasperated sigh. "Why can't I be personally involved? H does it all the time! He's always comforting victims and family members, making these grandiose promises and trying to play the hero. Horatio Caine, champion of pretty girls and small children," he said sarcastically. Calleigh shot him a disapproving look, and he knew he'd gone a bit too far. "Okay, that was outta line. But you see my point? Ally was terrified this morning—all I did was hold her hand. You would have done the same thing."

"Ally?"

"Yeah."

Her reply came in the form of a question. "When did you start calling her Ally?"

He didn't understand what she was getting at. "What?"

"We always refer to her as Miss Brooks or Allyson, Tim," she reminded him, taking a step closer and lowering her voice. "If you're calling her by a pet name, then you're too close."

She didn't continue, but made her way back toward her kit, leaving him standing alone to mull over her words.

He watched her go, his lips curling into a frown. _I'm too close? That's a first._

———

Night was the worst for Allyson. During the day there were people to talk to, things to do, and sunlight pouring in from every window, helping her push her memories of the attack to the back of her mind. Maybe she didn't forget completely, but daytime allowed her at least a partial respite from the continuous nightmare that played over and over in her mind at night.

It was playing now as she lay in bed in Amanda's spare bedroom. The full moon shown brightly outside her window, but the light only made it into the room if she left open the heavy curtains Amanda had put up at her request. With the curtains closed, she knew no one could see inside—the reason she had asked for them in the first place—but the dark was suffocating. Opening the curtains wasn't a much better option with the moonlight casting shadows around the room, her brain imagining them moving, coming to get her like some kind of adult's boogey man, all the while knowing someone could be watching her the way Aaron Polanski had.

She turned onto her side, pulling the sheet up to her chin and trying to shove the images out of her mind. Instead of soothing her fears, though, the motion made them worse, her senses keying instead on the unfamiliar noises around her. Nocturnal creatures skittered around outside, calling to each other mutedly as they went about their business. Out in the living room she could hear her parents' breathing as they slept on the pull-out couch, triggering memories of her attacker in the moments before she regained full consciousness, breathing so coolly as he stabbed her. Clutching the sheet tightly in her hands, she tried to picture her parents' peaceful faces, at rest for the moment after days of worrying, but every creak and moan of the townhouse broke her concentration. Her hands began to shake and she prayed for sleep to come, despite the high probability of waking up in a cold sweat after a terrifying nightmare. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to breathe slowly and focus on something calming, but the noises continued and the shaking spread to the rest of her body.

When the neighbors' floor groaned on the other side of the wall she jerked under the covers, frightened tears springing to her eyes as she buried her face in her pillow to try and shut out the tormented visions of Polanski moving through the house. _I will _not _let him win,_ she thought furiously, trying to regain control of herself. _I will _not _let him continue to terrorize me!_

She reached over to the nightstand and flicked on the small lamp that sat there, gathering her courage and slipping out of bed to close the door. It was another thing she didn't like, but she didn't want the light waking her parents or Amanda. Tip-toeing back to bed, she resumed lying on her side, sheets pulled up to her chin, wondering what to do. _I'm not going to just lay here and take it_, she decided. _There has to be something I can do…_

Her eyes fell on her cell phone, the display glowing beside the base of the lamp. She had programmed Tim's phone numbers into her phone book as soon as she arrived home to his tulips. And he had told her—twice—to call him anytime. She didn't like the idea of waking him up in the middle of the night, but it was more appealing than waking her parents who would only fuss over her like a child having a bad dream, or Amanda who had thrown herself into her work, coping with her friend's attack the only way she knew how. Tim, though, seemed to understand what she was going through, and, better, how to help her deal with it.

With one trembling hand, she reached out and grabbed the phone, flipping it open and hitting the appropriate speed dial button. On the other end of the line, his cell rang several times before his voicemail picked up, and she mashed the "end" button without leaving a message. Discouraged, she took a deep breath and worked up the nerve to try again, this time with his home number. Again, the phone rang in her ear, each successive ring making her heart sink a little more. Just when she thought she couldn't bear anymore disappointment, a groggy voice answered.

"Hello?"

She choked back a thankful sob. "Tim?"

She heard the rustle of sheets as he sat up in bed, suddenly awake. "Ally? Are you okay?"

"I'm…yeah…okay, physically," she managed to say. "I'm just…I can't…sleep…I'm…so afraid…"

"Hey," he responded soothingly. "It's okay…it's okay. Are your parents there? Amanda?"

She nodded even though he couldn't see her. "Yes, they're here…sleeping…" She closed her eyes. "Every noise…every shadow…it's him…"

His heart ached for her and he cleared his throat, fighting off the lump that threatened to rise up. "It's okay," he said again, not knowing what else to tell her. "You're safe…he can't hurt you anymore, Ally…I'm right here…" He kept talking, repeating over and over again that she was safe, that she was all right, until he heard her harsh breathing relax into something resembling normalcy. "Good. See? That's it…you're okay."

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah, I'm…I'll be okay."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"Oh, no Tim, you don't need to come over here," she told him softly, her guilt getting the better of her now. "I shouldn't have even called…I'm so sorry."

"No…hey, no," he said firmly. "You're gonna have good days and bad days, Ally. I'm here no matter what kind of day you're having."

She smiled gently into the pillow. "You're too good to me."

"Nope," he replied matter-of-factly. "Not possible." He paused a moment before continuing with a note of dry humor, "Especially not after I crushed your tulips."

"But that was an accident," she reminded him.

"Forgive me?"

He could hear the contentment beginning to grow in her voice when she answered. "You've more than made it up to me."

He stayed on the phone with her, talking about everything and nothing until her responses became sleepy murmurs, his voice deep and reassuring in her ear.

"You know, when you say I'm safe, I believe you," she told him as she drifted off.

"Then I'll keep telling you," he replied softly. "Good night, Ally."

———

Twenty minutes later he was at Dade County Jail signing into the visitor's log despite the late hour. He had been half dressed anyway, pulling on whatever clothes had been handy when Allyson called, getting ready to dash over to Amanda's if need be. Once Allyson had fallen asleep, though, his presence there was no longer required and a different destination came to mind.

Aaron Polanski walked slowly into the visitor's room, rubbing his eyes as he dropped into the chair opposite Tim. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Tim asked, his irritation blossoming into full blown anger at the sight of Allyson's attacker. "What do I want? I want you to take back everything you did to those women in South Dakota, and _every single_ _scratch_ on Allyson Brooks," he growled, stabbing a finger at Aaron to emphasize each word. "I want you to give Julia Jackson back her life."

Polanski drew his eyebrows together, confused. _Why is he talking about Julia? No one knows that was me._

Tim stood, planting his palms on the counter and leaning closer to the perforated Plexiglas that separated them, making sure Polanski was looking him in the eye. "I know what you did in Wyoming, Aaron, and I'm going to make sure you pay for it—they have the death penalty up there, and I know the State's Attorney will be happy to approve your extradition."

Polanski's eyes went wide. No one had ever conclusively connected him to Julia Jackson's murder, but here was this CSI before him, deadly serious, swearing to send him to a lethal injection for that very act. And, for the first time, Aaron began to believe him.

"You will _never_ hurt another woman." _Then Ally really can believe me when I tell her she's safe._ Tim turned, his fist smashing vehemently against the Plexiglas as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Polanski gaping fearfully after him.


	9. Plea Bargan

A/N: Well, our case is winding down now, and this chapter is proof. But don't think that means the end of the story is near. I'll be honest and admit that I don't know how many more sections are left, but I do know that there are still at least a few more to go...until I figure out how this thing is gonna end! Until then, enjoy this :-)

* * *

"For the record, we are here at my client's request," Polanski's lawyer began formally, "to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain." He looked across the table at the State's Attorney. "Aaron is willing to plead guilty to felony attempted murder for the attack on Allyson Brooks."

"He does the max," the prosecutor answered.

"That's life without parole," Polanski's attorney protested.

The State's Attorney shook his head. "It's either that or we go to trial and I get it from a judge. He's a violent predicate felon, and the evidence we have against him is overwhelming." He pulled a file folder from his brief case, one that Tim and Tripp had put together and hand delivered to him containing all information pertaining to Julia Jackson's murder in Wyoming, complete with a DNA match to the blood the Converse County Sheriff's Department had collected from their crime scene. "And, of course, there's this."

Polanski's lawyer pulled out a pair of reading glasses and scanned the file, glancing over at his client quickly before training his eyes on the prosecutor. "What is this?"

"_That_ is your client's death warrant," the State's Attorney answered confidently. "The Converse County District Attorney has already petitioned for extradition so that Mr. Polanski can be tried there for first degree murder."

Polanski's eyes widened in terrified shock. _It's happening! It's happening just like that CSI said it would!_ He motioned urgently to his lawyer, whispering insistently in his ear. The lawyer shook his head a couple of times and tried to calm his client, but Polanski was having none of it.

Finally the attorney relented. "We'll take the plea for Attempted Murder."

"Life without parole?"

He sighed and nodded. "Yes. But with one condition."

The State's Attorney drew his eyebrows together. "What condition?"

"That the Converse County DA declines prosecution. Aaron serves his time here, in Florida."

The State's Attorney managed to keep his face neutral, despite the uncertainty swirling around in his mind. "I can't promise anything, but I'll make the call this afternoon."

———

Two days later, Allyson stopped at the reception desk in the lobby of the Crime Lab, asking if Tim was available when the receptionist greeted her.

"Let me check." The officer picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a number. "Who should I say is asking?"

"Allyson Brooks," she answered. "But if he's busy I can catch him later."

"Okay." Switching gears, she spoke into the phone. "Speed? There's an Allyson Brooks here to see you." She listened a moment, then continued, "Okay, I'll tell her." Hanging up the phone, she turned her attention back to Allyson. "He said he's just finishing something up and that you should wait for him. This officer here will show you the way."

Allyson smiled and followed the officer to a sort of waiting area around the corner, a quiet corridor tucked away in the busy lab under a halo of slanted windows that rained down sunlight. She was sitting on cushioned bench looking out those windows when Tim appeared.

"Ally?"

Her eyes shifted from the sunlight to his face. "Hey," she smiled, standing slowly.

He watched her rise and nodded approvingly. "You look good…movin' around better."

"Yep," she confirmed. "Still sore, but I finally convinced my parents that I wouldn't break the instant I left the house, so they let me go out alone today."

"That's a nice change," he agreed. "What are you doing with your day of freedom?"

She grinned. "Amanda took pity on my and gave me a few errands to run so I could feel useful…pick up the dry cleaning, go to the post office—things that don't require heavy lifting."

"So no construction work or furniture delivery then," he quipped with a straight face.

"Not yet," she chuckled. "I'm still working my way up to grocery shopping." She shifted on her feet, fatigue from her eventful day beginning to catch up with her and obligating her to sit back down. "The dry cleaner is near here, so I came by instead of calling…I wanted to ask you about my case."

He sat down beside her. "You heard about the plea bargain."

She nodded. "The State's Attorney's called and told me Aaron Polanski agreed to plead guilty to attempted murder, and that he was going to be sentenced to life in prison."

"Without any possibility of parole," he added, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "That's the maximum sentence he can get."

"That's what he told me," she said. "But I get the feeling there's something else going on."

His forehead wrinkled. "He didn't tell you anything else?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "He talked to me like he knew what was best for me and I shouldn't question him."

Tim frowned. "That's a little condescending."

Allyson wrinkled up her nose. "Just a tad. But I knew if there was more to it, you would tell me."

"There _is_ more to it," he confirmed. "You weren't Polanski's first victim—there were two women he attacked in South Dakota, and he cut deals for both of them, served a little time. There was also a woman in Wyoming, Julia Jackson, who was attacked in her bed while she slept. He broke into her house through the back door and stabbed her."

"Just like me." She studied his expression, reading the rest of his thought. "He killed her, didn't he?" she asked quietly. "That's what the State's Attorney was keeping from me."

He nodded soberly. "Coroner's report says she never even woke up."

"And her murder was part of the plea bargain?"

"Yes," he responded, taking in a breath and letting it out slowly. "The District Attorney in Wyoming agreed not to seek extradition as long as Polanski explains exactly what he did and why he did it. One of their prosecutors is on the way down here to witness it."

"Wyoming is a death penalty state?" When he nodded, she continued, "So by pleading guilty for my attack, he gets to live. He's trying to save his own life after taking hers."

His lips curled in disgust. "And trying to take yours."

"And the prosecutor in Wyoming is okay with this?"

"The Converse County DA signed off on it, yeah," he said. "They're happy to be able to close the case and give Julia's family some answers. There was no guarantee Polanski was going to get a lethal injection anyway—he could have gotten life without parole there, too."

"So everybody wins."

He frowned again. "As much as anyone can win in a situation like this."

They were silent for a few minutes, sitting side by side, looking out the slanted windows. Allyson's mood had darkened at the discussion of her attacker and his past, but her mind, at least, was more at ease thanks to Tim's input. _The one person that never treats me like a victim_.

Sighing heavily, she moved to stand, gathering her strength to lift herself up off the chair. Instinctively, he reached out and gently grasped her upper arm, lending his strength to her to help her to her feet.

"You're going to be there, aren't you?" he asked standing close to her, knowing the answer to his question. "When Polanski allocutes, you're going to make sure you're there to see him do it with your own eyes."

She nodded. "He's not going to appear in court because of the plea bargain, so the State's Attorney told me I could observe the proceedings from outside the interview room instead." She met his dark eyes with her blue ones, vulnerable and fierce all at the same time. "I want to know why he picked me," she told him resolutely. "I have to know. And someone needs to be a witness for Julia Jackson."

"It doesn't have to be you," he said softly.

"Maybe it does," she returned. "Maybe that's why I survived, so I could speak for both of us."

He brushed a hand over her shoulder. "You survived," he told her firmly, "because you're a fighter."

His hand slid down her arm and she clasped it briefly in hers. "I have help fighting."

A throat cleared behind them and Allyson turned around, spying another man in the corridor signaling Tim but trying to keep a respectful distance. The badge and gun on his hip indicated that the matter was work related, and she took her cue.

"Duty calls," she said with a small smile.

"Yeah," he replied. "It does. I'll—"

"—call me tonight," she finished for him. "I know."

She made her way down the hall, smiling politely at Tim's colleague as she passed, and rounded the corner. When she had gone, the man approached Tim with an apologetic expression on his face.

"So that's Allyson Brooks," Eric Delko observed.

Tim's eyebrows drew together. "How did you know?"

Eric chuckled. "Because you have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"That look you always get when you talk to her," Eric informed him.

"What look?" Tim repeated, a bit defensively.

Eric laughed. "A happy look, okay?" he answered. "Even when the conversation isn't exactly pleasant, there's always some happy in that cranky personality of yours after you hear from her."

Tim blinked several times before responding. "So I look happy when I talk to Ally. Is that such a big deal?"

"I don't know if you noticed, Speed, but you're not exactly Little Mary Sunshine," Eric grinned.

Tim's face took on a patient quality laced with annoyance, as though he were dealing with a petulant child. "So?"

"So I think somehow she's been good for you." Eric's smile faded, his features becoming more serious. "I don't know how it happened during an attempted murder case, but you two seem to be genuine friends, and that doesn't come along everyday."

Tim saw something else in his friend's expression. "But?"

Eric shrugged his shoulders. "But the case is closed—it has been as far as CSI is concerned, and it will be for the State's Attorney, too, as soon as Polanski allocutes."

"And?"

"And," Eric replied, taking in a breath, "your official relationship with Allyson Brooks is over." He let the air out of his lungs, eyeing Tim closely. "You're going to have to make some decisions about your unofficial relationship with her."

Tim stared at Eric for a moment, evaluating his words. Then, in typical Speedle fashion he shifted gears, hiding his personal feelings in favor of profession obligations. "So did you have something on the hit-and-run?"


	10. Allocution

A/N: Well, here it is--the official end of Allyson's case, the closure I know she (and probably some of you, too) has been waiting for, and a little farewell for Frank Tripp because he's so much fun (he and Don Flack are my two favorite cops on all three shows!), but his involvement in this story is over. There is, of course, more story still to come for Ally and Tim, so stay tuned :-P

* * *

Allyson sat on the porch of Amanda's townhouse in the early morning hours, seeking comfort from the rising sun after an unsettled night's sleep. The air was warm, but not yet stifling, a light breeze rustling the leaves on the tree in the front yard and gently brushing locks of her hair against her neck. A book rested in her lap and a glass of orange juice sat on a little table beside her, but neither object seemed able to hold her interest. 

The roaring of a motorcycle engine commanded her attention, though, her eyes finding the vehicle and following it as it sped up the road. _Who the hell is making all that noise at this hour?_

When it came to a stop in Amanda's driveway she had her answer. "Tim Speedle," she smiled to herself when he pulled off his helmet. She watched him climb off and trudge up the walk, squinting at her in the sun. When he was close enough to hear, she greeted him. "'Morning," she called, her smile growing. "You tryin' to wake up the whole neighborhood?"

"Nope," he replied with a small but pleased smile, climbing the steps to the porch. "Just one girl, but she's already awake. Are you always up this early?"

She shook her head. "Not unless I have to be."

He studied her face, noting the dark circles under her eyes that hadn't disappeared after her release from the hospital, and became more serious. "House creeks still keeping you up?"

She shook her head again, pressing her lips together. "Nightmare," she answered tightly.

Standing against the porch rail in front of her, he leaned closer and looked into her eyes. "You should have called me."

"I can't call you every time I have trouble sleeping, Tim," she chided gently. "You'd never get any rest, and I know you're not sleeping well as it is." His long eyelashes swept down over his cheeks as he looked away from her, confirming her suspicions. "Maybe _I_ should be checking up on _you_."

"I'm not checking up on you," he countered lightly. "I'm on my way to work. This just happens to be one of the routes I can take."

"On that?" She gestured to the motorcycle in the driveway. He nodded and she smiled again. "She looks fast—bet she's got a big engine."

"You know motorcycles?" he asked, trying not to let his surprise show. _Just when I think I have her figured out…_

"A little," she responded. "I had a friend in college that would take me out after a particularly long week or a tough exam. It was good therapy, even in the fall when it's cold up north."

"It's good therapy in warm weather, too," he told her. "Maybe you and I can go for a ride some night when we're not sleeping."

She caught the twinkling in his eyes and grinned. "But we shouldn't be not-sleeping because you lost your job. You better get going."

"Yeah." He straightened up, hefting his helmet as he reached over and squeezed her shoulder warmly. "I know your parents will be there with you, but I'll try and get to PD during Polanski's allocution this afternoon, too."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Okay." Her fingers slid over his sleeve as he drew away, and she watched him cross the porch before speaking again. "Hey Tim?"

He paused on the stairs, turning toward her. "Yeah?"

She smiled appreciatively. "Thanks for not checking up on me."

He resumed his walk down the steps, returning her smile. "Anytime."

———

To facilitate Allyson's observation of Aaron Polanski's formal confession, all parties agreed to conduct the session in an interrogation room at the Police Department, which had mirrored windows and an intercom, rather than in an interview room at Dade County Jail, which didn't. She was standing outside the window now, listening to Polanski's voice as he described the way he stalked and killed Julia Jackson. Beside her stood her mother, one arm wrapped around Allyson's shoulders and her free hand clutching her daughter's.

"I followed her home one night from the gas station. Here she had this big ol' farmhouse, but she lived all by herself," Polanski explained to the State's Attorney and one of Converse County's Assistant District Attorneys.

"Why did you pick her?" the State's Attorney asked.

Polanski shrugged. "Why not?"

The Converse County ADA asked the next question through clenched teeth. "What did you do when you got to her home?"

"There wasn't a neighbor closer than five miles away, so I knew no one would hear her scream or see me around," Polanski continued. "The lock on her back door was easy to pick and I just went up to her bedroom with my knife…she was sleeping so peacefully…I didn't want to wake her so I made sure to stab her in the heart and lungs first so she'd die peacefully, too."

Peggy Brooks paled visibly at his words. "He's so _casual_ about it," she whispered. "Like he went to pick up a quart of milk at the store."

Allyson gripped her hand tighter in response, mutely listening as Polanski kept talking.

"Someone was driving down the road and did see me leave, and the cops questioned me, but no one could prove I killed Julia, so I figured I was good enough to do it again. Wyoming was cold in the winter, and I was tired of shoveling snow, so I figured I'd move south. When I got to Miami I saw that other girl, Allyson, at a gas station too, and she reminded me of Julia. She had the same long brown hair, she was the same height, same blue eyes. She looked like fun, so I followed her home every night for a week to get her routine down, and just like Julia she came home and stayed in for the night."

"Looked like _fun_?" Peggy choked.

"Mom, are you sure you want to hear this?" Allyson asked, trying to hide the strain in her voice. _Dad couldn't do it…thank goodness Amanda is with him in the waiting area._

"You're not going through this alone, sweetheart," Peggy insisted, some of her fire coming back. She pulled her daughter closer, hoping to quell the shaking that had developed in Allyson's shoulders.

"…picked the lock on her back door and brought my knife in—I liked using the knife on Julia…I had to get so close to her," Polanski was telling the prosecutors. "I bought new shoes so there wouldn't be a wear pattern and new clothes so the fibers wouldn't match anything I already had. I even wore latex gloves so I wouldn't leave any fingerprints, either." He grinned smugly at the two lawyers. "I watch those crime shows on TV, so I knew what the police would look for."

"That dumb bastard actually thought this through," a gruff voice muttered, coming up beside Allyson. She turned to find Tim, gun and badge on his hip and file folder in one hand, reaching for her with the other. He clasped her trembling free hand firmly in his, his eyes meeting hers and silently sending her all his strength and affection.

Her expression relaxed a little. _He always tells me how strong I am, but it's so much easier to be strong when he's with me._ "Still on duty?"

"Yeah," he answered quietly. "But I can stay for a few minutes."

"She was sleeping so peacefully," Polanski kept going inside the interrogation room. "Just like Julia. But when I got on the bed she started to move around, like she was having a bad dream. I almost didn't bother stabbing her—"

Allyson sucked in a sharp breath and held tighter to her mother and Tim.

"—but I figured since I was already there…" Polanski shrugged his shoulders again and paused, drawing his eyebrows together, remembering the attack. "I held her wrists down just in case she started to move again, and right when I stuck the knife in she woke up! I tried to hold her still and finish her off, but she kicked and scratched and…and punched!" He unzipped his jumpsuit and pulled up his t-shirt with handcuffed hands to reveal a healing yellowish bruise on his abdomen. "Look what she did to me!"

Peggy sniffled, tears running down her face. "That's my girl," she managed in a quivering voice.

"I tried to get a few shots in and then I just got out of there," Polanski told them, disappointment evident in his voice even through the intercom. "Packed up the clothes I wore and my shoes and gloves in those zip-loc bags down the block so I wouldn't track anything from her house home with me. And I made sure to leave the knife in a yard where there wasn't a car—no one to find it in the morning."

"Oh my God," Allyson said softly, her astonishment clear. "He really did think it through. It was just his bad luck that I survived."

"Luck nothing—it was your will to live," Tim amended.

In the interrogation room the lawyers asked a few more questions, wringing every detail from Polanski before finishing up the formalities of the plea bargain.

"In accordance with our plea agreement, then," the State's Attorney concluded officially when both lawyers were satisfied, "as approved by Judge Harold Lawton, Aaron Polanski you are sentenced to serve a term in prison not less than that of your natural life, with no possibility of parole, in a facility to be determined by the Florida Department of Corrections."

"You're never getting out," Allyson told him through the glass with gritted teeth, her fear mixing with anger. "Except to go to hell."

"And you helped put him in there," Tim reminded her. "The exams and photographs at the hospital, the description of him and what he did, the lineup…you did all that."

She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes trained on Polanski as he was helped to his feet and led out of the interrogation room. Both Tim and Peggy noticed the hard look on her face and exchanged glances, sharing the same thought: _Thank God this is finally over._

After a few minutes of standing in silence, Tim cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I, uh…I have to get back…"

Allyson shifted her attention from the empty room back to him, nodding again and smiling softly. "Go catch some more bad guys."

He met her gaze a moment and squeezed her hand warmly before releasing it. Bidding good-bye to Peggy, his fingers trailed over Allyson's back as he headed off, the unspoken promise of an off-duty phone call later on imparted through his touch.

———

Out in the waiting area, Amanda sat next to John Brooks, her arm looped through his, trying her best to keep him calm. Detective Tripp spotted them waiting for Peggy and Allyson and, deducing who they were, went over to talk to them.

"Mr. Brooks?"

John looked up, his eyes rimmed with red. "Yes?"

"Mr. Brooks, I'm Frank Tripp, the detective who worked on your daughter's case."

John shook the offered hand and gestured to an empty seat across from him. "Ally mentioned you, yes. Thank you so much for finding her attacker…we're grateful for everything you've done."

"I'm just glad I could help," Tripp replied, lowering himself onto the chair.

"You have children?" John asked.

Tripp nodded. "Three. And if something happened to one of them, I don't know what I'd do."

"You would be able to be there for them when they needed you," John responded, answering his own question. He dropped his head into his hands. "I tried," he continued, his voice wavering. "I really tried, but I couldn't be there for the confession. I just couldn't stand there and listen to that monster talk about what he did to my little girl…"

"Look, I don't know you, Mr. Brooks," Tripp began, watching Amanda console the man, "and I don't know what your relationship is like with your daughter. But I do know that when Allyson was attacked you flew all the way across the country to be with her. She needed you and you came." Tripp pressed his lips together, suppressing the vision of his family injured, dying in their bedrooms after an attack like Allyson's. "I only met your daughter a couple of times, but I can tell she's a smart girl," he continued as gently as he knew how. "And she knows how much her daddy loves her."

John lifted his face and watched as the detective rose from his seat. No other words were exchanged, only curt masculine nods, but the appreciation was evident in John's eyes. _He's right, she does love me. And I'll be here as long as she needs me._


	11. Case Closed

A/N: This one is a little longer than usual, but I honestly couldn't find a single thing to cut. And believe me, I tried! Then I got over my compulsive need to have every chapter the same length and stopped trying to change it :-)

Enjoy!

* * *

As Allyson knew it would, her cell phone rang later that day, flashing Tim's number on the Caller ID display. She smiled when she flipped it open. "I thought you weren't checking up on me anymore," she greeted him.

"I wasn't checking up on you _this morning_," he deadpanned. "It's evening now."

"Oh, I see," she chuckled. "So that makes it okay."

"Yes." He paused a moment before continuing in a serious voice, "So how are you?"

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm…I'm still processing, I think," she decided. "It was hard hearing Aaron Polanski talk about what he did to me, to Julia Jackson. But watching him being led away in handcuffs was kind of…cathartic, at least for me. My mom didn't quite see it that way—I think it was harder for her to hear about what happened to me than it was for me to relive it."

Tim nodded on the other end of the line. "It's a very helpless feeling," he explained. "She wasn't there to prevent the attack, or to defend you during it, and she knows there isn't really anything she can for you now."

Allyson heard the emotion in his voice despite his efforts to hide it, and knew he was describing more than just her mother's feelings. "But there are things she does for me that help so much," she countered gently. "Making me feel safe is the big one."

He understood the undertones of her reply and felt a measure of relief knowing that he had made a difference for her. "So, I wasn't just calling to check on you," he confessed, changing the subject.

"You weren't?"

"No," he replied. "I, uh, need to go blow off some steam after the day I had, and I thought you might need a little release, too."

That piqued her interest. "Like what?"

"It's a surprise," he told her evenly. "You up for a little adventure?"

"Yes," she said decisively. "Adventure sounds wonderful right about now. I need to get today out of my system."

"Perfect," he responded. "I'll pick you up in half an hour. Wear long sleeves and pants, okay?"

"What? Why?"

He smiled. "You'll see."

———

Peggy and John had been persuaded to go out to dinner, just the two of them, and Amanda had gone back to work, so Allyson was alone in the house when the doorbell rang. Pulling the door open, she found Tim standing on the porch dressed in dark jeans and a slightly fitted black shirt, complete with a clean-shaven face. "Hey," she greeted him. "You changed."

"Yeah, it turned into kind of a grimy day after I saw you," he told her, squinting a little at the memory. "I figured I'd better clean up a little before I came over."

Her smile took on a teasing quality as she made her next observation. "You shaved, too."

"Part of the cleaning up," he explained, his eyes sweeping over her. He noted the blue jeans and the long-sleeved button down shirt over her tank top and nodded approvingly. "I see you're all ready to go."

"Protected from sun exposure and wind burn," she returned, catching a glimpse of his motorcycle in the driveway and understanding his earlier wardrobe request.

"You wanna take a ride?"

"Absolutely. Where are we going?"

"You'll just have to wait 'til we get there." His hand settled on the small of her back, guiding her down the porch steps and out to the bike. "But you'll tell me if you need a break, right?" he asked.

"Yes sir," she answered amiably.

Throwing a leg over and climbing on, he reached out to help her up, feeling her fingers dig into his shoulder as she seated herself. She accepted the helmet he handed her when she was situated, finding it a little large and tucking her long hair up inside to help it fit.

"You know, there's no helmet law in Florida," she observed, wondering for the hundredth time why helmets weren't required for motorcyclists in her adopted state.

"Worried about messing up your hair?" he joked lightly. Then, more seriously, "Humor me—you didn't fight Aaron Polanski for your life back to lose it in a traffic accident."

She smiled, fastening the clasp under her chin as he turned the key and revved the engine. "What about you?" she asked, leaning close to his ear to be heard. "You didn't fight Aaron Polanski for my life back so I could lose you in a traffic accident."

That brought a smile to his lips and he grabbed a second helmet off the handlebar. "Yes ma'am."

They pulled out of the driveway and sped down the road, eventually merging onto the A1A, the highway running along the eastern coastline of Florida. Allyson's arms were wrapped securely around Tim as he skillfully navigated through the traffic, heading out of the city and its suburbs into the serenity of the approaching twilight. The highway quickly reduced itself to little more than a two-lane road, and with its size went the heavy traffic, allowing the pair to relax and enjoy the openness of the road.

They drove in silence, Tim reassured by Allyson's touch, stealing glimpses of her in the side mirror, and Allyson smiling at his fidgeting, knowing he wanted to push the bike faster but resisting the urge for her benefit. _Maybe next time…_

Eventually they slowed, pulling off the highway directly onto the sand, riding leisurely along a nearly deserted stretch of beach. Allyson released her hold on Tim, raising her arms in the air and stretching her stiff limbs. He slowed further, maintaining just enough speed to keep the motorcycle upright as he scanned the area for a good place to stop. In the mirror he caught sight of her unsnapping her helmet, pulling it off and letting her hair loose in the light breeze. She stretched her arms out again, this time in celebration, a satisfied smile on her face as her hair blew around her.

"I'm free," she said, just loudly enough for him to hear her. He watched her take in a deep breath and let it out, her smile widening. "I'm free!"

Tim's heart swelled. Allyson had been optimistic since the day he'd met her, but it has always been guarded, tinged with pain and sometimes fear. This was the first time he'd ever seen her just…happy.

"Hold on a minute," he cautioned, bringing the bike to a halt and setting the kickstand. "Let's get your feet on solid ground before you try and fly away again."

He slid off, turning and reaching for her to help her down. She moved laboriously, the long ride doing nothing for her not-quite-healed injuries, but her smile remained firmly in place. "You were right," she decided. "This is good therapy in warm weather, too."

He didn't respond in words, but smiled down at her, a small pleased smile that began on his lips and twinkled in his dark brown eyes. "Shall we?" He asked, gesturing toward the packed sand closer to the water.

Allyson threw her arms out again and turned slowly around in a circle, a contented smile once again on her face. "What a great idea," she told him. "The ride, the beach at sunset…I'm so glad you brought me up here."

His smile became broader, in serious danger of becoming goofy at the sight of her so relaxed. "Beats going to the movies, doesn't it?"

"Oh yeah."

They wandered along the beach, taking their time, staying in close proximity to each other and watching the sun sink lower in the sky. Neither was in a hurry to speak, so they listened instead to the waves lapping against the shore and the seagulls calling out to each other as they headed home for the evening.

Finally, though, Allyson did speak. "I have something for you." She stopped walking and pulled a small paper bag from her pocket containing two quarter-sized pendants on a black cord. "I gather you're not really a religious person," she began, "and I'm not really, either—I believe in God, but don't belong to any particular denomination. My father's family, though, is Catholic, and one part of Catholicism that I always liked was the idea of patron saints."

He nodded, familiar with the concept. "Each saint has different things and people they're responsible for."

"Kind of like an extra layer of protection," she agreed. "God is looking after you, and so are these saints." The corners of her lips drew back in a soft smile and her eyes shone in the dusky light. "You have been so good to me, looking after me, making sure I have the support I need. And I know," she held up her empty hand in a "stop" gesture, "that you're going to tell me I don't need looking after, and that you didn't do anything I couldn't have done alone…"

He chuckled a little in response. _She's right—I was just about to say that._

"…but you did a lot more for me than you realize, and I wanted you to have these."

He took the pendants from her, examining them closely as she detailed each one. "This one is Saint Michael," she told him, "patron saint of police officers. And this one," she said, pointing to the second medal, "is Saint Albertus Magnus, patron saint of scientists. Even if you don't believe the stories, I thought you might like the idea of these guys watching over you."

"I'm so special I rate two saints?" he quipped.

"Yes," she responded without hesitation, making sure to meet and hold his gaze for a long moment. "I know you're not a jewelry kind of guy, either," she continued, "so I got the cord so it wouldn't feel like a necklace. If you don't want to wear them, though, that's okay. You could keep them someplace else…in your pocket, in the Hummer…"

"Why wouldn't I wear them?" he asked gently, lifting the long cord over his head and tucking it inside his shirt. "Even if I'm not religious and not a jewelry guy, they were a gift from you."

Another pause, another locking of eyes, and Allyson was beginning to wonder if this was an evening for good-byes. _It makes sense—the case is over, and so is his obligation to me. But he's gone far above mere obligation in the way he's treated me…_

Fishing a bag of his own out of his pocket, he pulled it open and extracted a gold chain threaded through a small gold heart. "I, uh, have something for you, too."

He held it out in the palm of his hand for her to see, and recognition hit her features instantly. "My necklace," she said, carefully picking it up. "I didn't think I'd ever see it again."

"Well, it was evidence," he responded. "You were wearing it the night you were attacked. But since Polanski pled out, the case is closed now."

"And it's not evidence anymore," she added. "It's just my necklace again."

She reached behind her to clasp it around her neck, but Tim took the ends from her and, after waiting for her to gather her hair and hold it up out of the way, fastened it himself. He brushed his hands over her shoulders when the clasp caught. "There."

She turned back to face him, her smile taking on a bittersweet quality as her hair fell down around her face. "If it wasn't official before, it definitely is now."

He sighed. "Yeah."

She pressed her lips together, still for a moment as though she was thinking something over. Then, "So that means we don't have any more professional reasons to see each other."

He quirked his eyebrows at her. "Do we need professional reasons to see each other?"

"I guess that depends," Allyson hedged.

"On what?" he asked evenly.

"On whether or not my case was just the rescue of a damsel in distress," she replied quietly.

He pursed his lips, turning her words over in his mind. "First of all," he told her, "I'm not a damsel in distress kind of guy. I don't want to rescue the girl or play the hero—I just want to do my job."

_Is that what I am? Just a job? Just a case?_

He continued his explanation, answering her unasked question. "And second of all, you are anything but a damsel in distress. You didn't need to be rescued or protected, you just needed a friend." He looked away, shifting his eyes first to the water behind her, then to the sand beneath their feet and clearing his throat, finding it difficult to express his next sentiment. "And so did I."

Those words coupled with the sincerity she saw in his face evaporated in an instant the uncertainty that had been brewing in her mind. _We may have met because of his occupation but our friendship is real._ There was just one more question she had to ask. "What about being personally involved with the victim from one of your cases? Can't you get in trouble for that?"

"There was nothing improper about our involvement during the case," he reminded her. "And Polanski's plea means he gives up the right to appeal, so I'll never have to testify in court and there's no need to worry about a conflict of interest."

Fatigue began to catch up with her and she found a dry spot to sit down. "Which means we don't need professional reasons to see each other," she surmised as he sat down beside her, his boots planted firmly in the sand in front of him.

His arms came to rest on his knees, his answer in the form of a single word. "Nope."

"So, from now on it's strictly personal," she said as nonchalantly as she could.

Reaching across his body, he picked up her hand and placed it in his, clasping it firmly as he offered another monosyllabic reply. "Yes."

She touched her forehead to his shoulder, nuzzling him affectionately before laying her cheek against his. "Okay."

They sat together looking out over the water a while, hand in hand, the setting sun behind them sparkling off the water, before Allyson broke the silence.

"Hey Tim?"

"Yeah?"

She lifted her head and turned to him. "Promise me something."

He searched her blue eyes, wondering what thoughts were forming behind them. "What's that?"

"Promise me," she requested, her lips pulling into a grin, "that you'll shave more often." Her fingers trailed lightly across his cheek and her smile broadened. "This whole clean-cut look really works for you."

For the first time in a long time, Tim's face broke into a wide grin and he laughed aloud. "Once in a while," he conceded after a moment, squeezing her hand affectionately. "But not too often—I have a reputation to protect."

She resumed her previous position leaning against him, this time with her head pillowed comfortably in the crook of his neck. "I can live with that."

_And thank God you're living. _He reached his arm around her, wrapping her protectively in his embrace, his grin still firmly in place. "Me too."


	12. House Hunting

A/N: A little lower-key chapter for you this week--a bit of a break from the more emotional ones we've had lately. This is just a little fun for Tim and Allyson, a little show of comraderie between the two of them as they continue to move past the whole victim-investigator relationship. Enjoy :-)

* * *

Allyson popped the trunk of her car, reaching inside and gathering some of the many grocery bags contained inside. As she reappeared, arms full, a khaki colored Hummer pulled to a stop in front of the townhouse. Recognizing the MDPD shield painted on the door, she smiled.

"I thought you weren't an early riser," Tim called walking up the driveway. "But here you've already been grocery shopping and it's only eight o'clock in the morning."

"I'm trying to get back into my regular sleep cycle," she told him, allowing him to take some of the bags she carried and noting with satisfaction the black cord around his neck peeking out from under his shirt collar. "I'm finally going back to work next week, and I start at 6:45."

He winced, following her through the front door and into the kitchen. "Ouch."

"Tell me about it," she agreed. "So I figured I'd better start adjusting now."

"Well, you should have told me you were shopping this morning…I could have taken you in the Hummer," he winked.

She chuckled at that. "I'm sure that would go over well with your boss." She set down the bags she was carrying, motioning for Tim to leave his as well, and headed out to the car for round two. "Why do you have it this morning anyway? You usually take the bike to work."

"I went in early to take care of a few things before I came over here," he told her.

She nodded, trudging up the front stairs one more time. "That explains the gun and the badge," she observed.

He nodded. "I'm on call this morning." He adjusted the bags he was carrying and hauled them into Amanda's kitchen, setting them on the floor where there was room. "I haven't had the gun around you much, have I?"

She began unpacking, putting the perishable items into Amanda's refrigerator and freezer. "No, I guess not," she replied, searching her memory. "Just when you've been on duty."

He helped her put away the groceries, holding up items and waiting for her to point to the correct cabinet as he spoke. "Does it bother you? I mean, having it here?"

She stretched up to put a box of cereal on top of the fridge, shaking her head. "No—firearms don't bother me. My father's a hunter, and he always kept his rifles in the house. Of course," she added with a smile, "they were in a closet on a shelf that, to this day, I can't reach, and I was forbidden to even go near them."

"So you never fired one?" he asked curiously.

"Nope. My dad's a good man, but he's old school…has a bit of a gender bias sometimes, particularly when it comes to his little girl. He always told me hunting was for boys."

Tim stopped moving a moment and looked at her. "I bet that went over well."

"It bugged me a little," she answered. "But if I had really been interested, I could have talked Dad into taking me with him. When I got older I did think that maybe I should learn how to use the rifles safely, you know, just in case I needed to."

He nodded, reaching for another bag. "Makes sense." He put away a few more items, turning a thought over in his mind before speaking again. "What about now?"

This time Allyson paused and turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he replied, taking in a breath and blowing it out, "maybe it's not a bad idea for you to get used to handling my service pistol if I'm going to have it around you…just in case."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," she echoed. "As long as you won't get in trouble for it."

"No," he shook his head. "I can't take you to the Department firing range, but we can go to a public range no problem."

"Sounds good," she replied. "Just let me know when."

"I'm off Thursday—how's that?"

She thought back over her mental calendar for any commitments on that day. "Thursday works. The only thing I have to do is take my parents to the airport at ten that morning."

"Good, then we can go in the afternoon," he told her with a twinkle in his eyes, "because I am _not_ getting up at the crack of dawn on my day off."

She chuckled. "No problem, Sleeping Beauty."

When the last can of tuna was tucked safely away in the cupboard, the pair hunted down Allyson's purse and keys again and headed back out to the driveway. Climbing into the passenger side of the Hummer, she pulled out a slip of paper with directions written on it, pointing out the way as they drove along.

"So the Realtor has how many houses for you to look at today?" he asked.

"Three," she answered. "Two of them are exactly in my price range, and on is a little more expensive than I wanted to go, but she insisted I at least look at it."

"Trying to get a bigger commission," Tim muttered.

Allyson nodded briefly. "Maybe, but if she can sell my little house then she'll be worth it."

"Any prospects yet?"

She shook her head. "No one's really in a hurry to buy a house where someone almost died." There was a long moment of silence between the two before she spoke again. "She did say something about a developer friend of hers who is always looking for property. He buys vacant lots or ones with little houses and builds big ones to sell to the rich and famous."

"So he wouldn't be interested in the house anyway, just the land underneath it," Tim added.

"Right." Another quiet moment passed as the good memories of Allyson's little house paraded through her mind, bringing a slightly sad look to her face at the prospect of it being destroyed.

He caught her expression in his peripheral vision and reached for her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Hey, we're going to find you a great new house, where you're going to have some great memories," he told her. "I promise."

"I know," she sighed. "That was just my first house, you know? I saved up for the down payment the whole first year I lived down here and scraped together the fee for the Realtor, which wasn't easy on a teacher's salary…"

"We don't work for the county to get rich," he agreed. "But now you've been here a few years, gotten some seniority, a better salary…we'll find you a house that you'll love just as much as your first one."

They drove along a few more minutes in comfortable silence until they found the right street. Allyson checked the numbers on the slip of paper against the numbers posted on each house and pointed him to the correct driveway. "Here's our first candidate."

They pulled up and came to a stop in front of the large garage, noting that the Realtor had already arrived and opened up the house. Climbing out of the Hummer, both Tim and Allyson gave the outside the once-over.

"Siding's new," Tim commented. "And it's bigger than yours."

She nodded, her eyes sweeping over the second story. "The roof looks new, too. That's good."

The pair studied the house a moment longer before heading up the front steps and into the entryway, meeting the Realtor. She gave them the grand tour, leading Allyson and Tim around the house pointing out closets and storage spaces, upgrades the previous owners had made, and features she thought might interest Allyson, answering questions as they moved. When they returned to the entryway, the Realtor excused herself to her car, giving her client some time alone with the house.

Allyson turned to Tim, her eyes trained on him as she tried read his expression. "What do you think?"

"It's a nice house," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "But?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't seem to fit you." She eyed him further and he felt compelled to explain himself. "It's… Don't take this the wrong way, but it's too upscale for you."

"Too upscale?"

He frowned. "Yeah—the elaborate molding in all the rooms, the chandelier in the dining room, the polished wood floors… I just can't see you living here."

She smiled slyly at his words. "I was thinking the same thing…I just wanted to hear you agree with me. Let's go see the next one."

Back into the Hummer they went, following the Realtor through town to the next house on the list. This one was a single story brick number with a big bay window in the front and a small garage on the left-hand side. A strip of tilled dirt meandered across the front of the house, home to several colorful flowering plants and edged in sleek black vinyl.

Tim saw the smile that crept across Allyson's face as she exited the Hummer, noticed her eyes light up as she took in every detail, and found himself smiling along with her. Brushing a hand over the small of her back, he escorted her to the front door, holding it open for her when she stepped inside. "This one's a little more promising."

"Oh yeah," she answered, her gaze traveling around the living room.

The Realtor again showed them around the house, leading them from the living room to the kitchen, pointing out the new cabinets and appliances. "It's not as big as the kitchen in the other house, but it's situated in such a way that it's really easy to get to everything. Do you do a lot of cooking?"

Allyson nodded. "When I have the time…and somebody to cook for," she replied, glancing at Tim. "Cooking for just me isn't as much fun."

He had a momentary vision of Allyson bustling around the kitchen, reprimanding him for stealing a piece of whatever she was making. "Hey, anytime you need an audience let me know—I'm a big fan of food."

She chuckled, following the Realtor out of the kitchen and down the short hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom. "Not audience," she corrected with mock sternness, "accomplice. You're going to help." He raised an eyebrow at her and she flashed him a smile, checking out the bathroom and the first of the two bedrooms. "This is the guest room? It's bigger than my master bedroom."

"This is the second bedroom, yes," the Realtor answered. "And across the hall here is the master…" She led the pair into the other bedroom, pointing as she spoke. "You can see the two closets, there—they're absolutely enormous. The owner was actually going to turn one of them into a second bathroom, but never quite got around to it."

Allyson entered the room, her eyes roving over every surface and stopping at the two windows on adjoining walls. The Realtor noticed her studying them and began explaining. "Those windows were something else the owner was going to change. I know they're rather small, but—"

"No, they're fine," Allyson stopped her. "I love the big window in the living room, but I'm not a big fan of people being able to look into my bedroom."

The Realtor breathed a sigh of relief, oblivious to the way Tim's hand went to Allyson's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Then these are perfect for you."

The three discussed the room a few minutes more, then headed back into the living room. As Allyson moved down the hallway she tried to picture herself walking the same path every morning, ducking into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and carrying it into the living room to catch the morning news while she got ready for work. She imagined her furniture, her photos and knickknacks, her television and stereo, her books on their shelves, adorning the room. She envisioned herself parked in the middle of the floor putting together her latest electronic purchase, fumbling with the instruction manual while Tim turned the item over quizzically beside her.

"This is it," she decided. "This is the one I want to buy."

The Realtor looked at Allyson, about to ask her if she wanted to see the other house they had lined up, but caught sight of the expression on her face and stopped short. "Feels like home, doesn't it?"

"Feels like it will be home," she amended. "Once I have a chance to make it mine."

"That's what you're looking for," the Realtor nodded approvingly. "Let's talk about the next steps…"


	13. The New Normal

A/N: A new chapter for you early this morning, and I think the title for this one says it all :-) Allyson's parents head home to Buffalo, and she and Tim add a couple of new activities to their lives.

* * *

Standing in line inside the terminal at Miami International Airport, Allyson's mother was pondering the idea of leaving her daughter as she prepared to head back to Buffalo with her husband. "My baby girl," Peggy said softly, sniffling a little as she cupped Allyson's cheek. 

"Mom, it's okay," Allyson responded gently. "I'll be alright."

Peggy nodded, sniffling again in an effort to keep from crying. "I know, I know. You're a strong woman, you know that? So strong…"

"I got that from you," Allyson smiled.

Peggy managed a smile in return. "Maybe." She took Allyson's hand in hers and squeezed lovingly. "But at least you didn't have to be strong alone for this whole thing."

"Yeah, having you and Dad here has helped a lot," Allyson agreed.

"Maybe," Peggy repeated. "I mean I'm sure we did help, but I was thinking more of Tim than of us." Her gaze shifted to the automatic doors behind them as they slid open, revealing John and Tim loaded down with luggage trudging toward the two women. "I don't want to leave, but it's easier to go knowing he's here with you."

Allyson's eyes followed her mother's, and her smile grew. _He makes a lot of things easier. _She waved them over as Peggy stepped up to the counter, helping Tim wrangle the bags onto the scale to be checked in. A few minutes later the Brooks' IDs were checked and their boarding passes issued, and they were on their way to the security checkpoint.

"I guess this is it," John said, halting just short of the TSA agents. He hugged Allyson tenderly and kissed her hair. "I love you, sweetheart. We'll see you soon."

"Love you, too, Daddy," she whispered, tightening her arms around his neck.

When he released her he offered his hand to Tim. The younger man shook it, a tacit understanding passing between them.

_Take good care of her._

_I will._

Peggy took her turn saying good-bye to Allyson with her own warm embrace, fresh tears springing to her eyes. She held her daughter for several long moments before letting go and turning to Tim, slipping her arms around him as well. "Thank you," she said quietly, pecking him on the cheek, "for everything."

A slightly embarrassed pink tinge crept up into his face, but he responded with an affectionate hug. "It was my pleasure," he told her with a small smile.

A second round of good-byes were said and wishes for a safe flight expressed as John and Peggy tore themselves away, moving quickly through the unusually short security line. Tim and Allyson waited until they had cleared the x-ray machines and metal detectors, waiving one last good-bye before turning and heading back out to the car.

They made it all the way back to the parking garage before Allyson cracked. No tears fell but her eyes were distinctly wet as she leaded against the car, taking several slow deep breaths, avoiding Tim's gaze as she tried to regain her composure.

He positioned himself beside her, leaning against the car as well, sticking his hands in his pockets for lack of a better place to put them. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. It's just hard saying good-bye to them. I don't see them very often, especially since I moved down here. And the reason they came this time…"

He reached over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him. She rested her head against him, the familiar feelings of security and contentment he always brought to her gradually replacing the loneliness of her parents' departure. After a few minutes she lifted her head and took another deep breath, letting it out in a deep sigh.

He squeezed her shoulder and slid his hand across her back, his fingers caressing the nape of her neck. "Better?"

She nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. "Yeah."

"Wanna go take out your frustrations on a big scary paper target?"

That made her laugh, and she patted his chest before moving toward the driver's side door. "Let's go."

———

They arrived at the firing range thirty minutes later, stopping on the way in to see the range master who was a friend of Tim's. He quickly checked over Tim's weapon, then retrieved eye and ear protection for the pair as well as several paper targets. After reviewing the range rules with them, he presented them with safety waivers to sign.

"We're gonna use one of yours, today, too," Tim said, scrawling his name across the bottom of the waiver.

"Something small to get you started?" the range master asked. When Allyson nodded, he smiled. "I have a nice little .22 that'll do the trick." He disappeared into the back room and reappeared a few minutes later with a small handgun and a box of ammunition for it, as well as a box for Tim's. "There you go," he told them, laying everything out on the counter. "We're pretty slow today, so you have your pick of lanes."

"Thanks Nick." Tim gathered their materials and led Allyson out onto the firing line, putting on his safety glasses and ear protection as they moved to the last lane, motioning for her to follow suit. Setting the guns and ammunition on the shelf, he hung one of the targets from the motorized clasp and sent it out to the twenty yard mark. "We'll start with a short distance," he told her.

"Good idea," she agreed.

Once the target was in place, Tim picked up the .22 and loaded the magazine. He showed her how to put the clip into the weapon and how to chamber a round, then handed it to her, careful to make sure the safety was still on. "Okay, your right hand goes here…" Standing behind her, he took her hand in his and wrapped it around the pistol grip, reaching for her other hand. "Your left one goes here, along the bottom, to steady the shot."

"Okay." She gripped the gun firmly and raised it to chest level, his hand still covering hers.

"I'll fire a couple of shots with you first," he decided, "to get you used to the motion, then you can finish the magazine alone."

"Alright."

"Ready?"

Allyson nodded. "Let 'er rip."

He thumbed off the safety and put pressure on her index finger which, in turn, squeezed the trigger, firing a bullet straight into the target. Allowing a moment to adjust after the recoil, he pulled again, sending another round downrange.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Feel comfortable?"

"Yeah," she responded. "It fits pretty well in my hands, and it doesn't kick a whole lot."

"Small gun, small bullets, small amounts of gunpowder," he reminded her.

"Which equals small recoil," she added.

He nodded. "Yep. You wanna try it by yourself?"

She smiled. "Definitely."

He released her and took a couple of steps back, giving her room to handle the gun on her own. He watched her take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then aim the barrel at the target. One more deep breath and she pulled the trigger several times in slow succession, pausing between shots to correct her aim. Her arms were steady, her eyes locked on the target, her stance rock solid. When the clip was empty she safed the weapon and laid it on the shelf in front of her while Tim reached over and hit the button to retrieve the target.

"Not bad," he smiled as the paper came into closer view. "Every round hit the target."

Allyson stood close beside him and studied the outline of the faux bad guy. "Not all of them hit the right part of the target, though," she chuckled.

"That comes with practice," he said.

"Which I'll get more of, right?" she smiled.

"Absolutely."

She shot several more magazines of ammunition with the .22, then Tim took his turn, sending a fresh target further downrange and loading a clip into his own weapon. When his box of ammunition, too, was spent, they decided to call it a day, returning their materials to the range master.

"How'd you do?" he asked. Allyson held up her targets for him to inspect and he grinned in response. "Nicely done, especially for a first-timer." His eyes swiveled to Tim, prompting him to show off his own target with a smug little smile. "Not bad, Speed—all head and heart. You've got a good teacher there," he told Allyson.

"I certainly do," she smiled back.

———

Tim came into his living room, pressing the "off" button on the cordless phone as he replaced it on its cradle. "Dinner's on the way."

Allyson sat on the floor with his unloaded gun, turning it over in her hands, trying to hold it the way she had the .22 at the range. "Did you order—"

"—extra egg rolls," he finished with a small, knowing smile. "Yes. They'll be here in twenty minutes." He lowered himself onto the floor beside her, watching her handle his service pistol. "It's a little different than the one you had this afternoon."

"Big," she commented. "The .22 fit in my hands pretty well, but this one is harder to manage."

"That's why we started you off with a small gun," he reminded her. "The kick on this one's bigger, too—makes it harder to control, especially if you're not used to it."

She handed it back to him and smiled. "Well you certainly handled it well."

"Lots of practice," he answered. He began disassembling the weapon, placing each component on the floor in front of them.

"And lots of cleaning," she observed.

"Yeah," he nodded, reaching for the gun cleaning kit he had left on the couch. "Some people like to clean their guns every day, some do it every week. I clean mine after I use it."

"And how often is that?" she asked in a quieter voice. _How many times have you needed your gun on the job?_

He took a moment to look into her eyes, reading the worry there. "After I've been to the range," he assured her. "I've _drawn_ my weapon on duty more than a few times, but I've never had to use it on anything other than inanimate objects."

The relief was evident in her face. "Let's hope it stays that way."

"I'll second that," he replied. "But let's make sure this thing works in case it doesn't stay that way."

Once he had the gun in pieces, he showed her which parts needed brushing out, which parts needed wiping down, and which parts needed oiling. Together they thoroughly cleaned each piece and reassembled the weapon, the activity giving them both some semblance of control over the unpredictability of life.

"There," she said with a satisfied air when she held the completed firearm in her hands again. "Clean and safe and ready to load."

The buzzer rang at that instant and he rose to answer it. "After dinner…your egg rolls are here."

Allyson stood, too, and made her way into the kitchen for silverware and drinks. A few minutes later Tim joined her, reaching over her shoulder to pull a couple of plates from a cupboard as he set a paper bag down on the counter in front of her.

"Smells good," she smiled.

He proffered a smile in return. "Dig in."

They loaded their plates and carried them into the living room, plopping down on the couch beside each other and flipping on the TV. They settled on a _Jeopardy!_ rerun neither of them had seen, answering questions along with the contestants on the show as they ate. As the program went on the question-answering became competitive, and soon the two were arguing over who was quickest and which one of them was ahead. By the end of the show, Allyson was laughing out loud at Tim's insistence that his answer to the Final Jeopardy question was correct while they waited for Alex Trebec to give them confirmation.

"I'm telling you it was _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_," he contended, a very serious expression on his face.

She tried to hide her amusement and raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "The KGB used _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ to send messages to operatives during the Cold War?"

"Yes," he told her with an emphatic nod.

She grinned in response. "State your source."

His eyes met hers and she could see the enjoyment in them as he answered her. "There's this book I read…it's on the shelf over there if you want to borrow it…"

* * *

A/N 2: Yes, Tim cleaned his gun, lol! I remember seeing "Lost Son" and thinking "why on earth would a guy that smart not take care of his weapon?". Then, when I saw "Dispo Day" later (I caught the old eps all out of order), the whole not-cleaning-his-gun thing made even less sense to me ("it happened _twice_?!"). Rory Cochrane had it right when he said it was "lame", so I decided to fix that little error. It is at this point that my Tim differs from CBS's Tim, but hopefully this will be the only difference :-)


	14. Moving

A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up--the end of the marking period is tomorrow, so I'm burried in papers that need grading and students who are very anxious about those grades! At any rate, here it is: a little cuteness, a little angst, and a little more affection from Tim and Ally for you :-)

* * *

"I've got good news," Allyson chirped cheerily into the phone.

On the other end of the line, Tim found himself smiling at the sound of her voice. "Yeah?"

"I got a call from the Realtor this afternoon," she told him.

"You got the house?" he asked expectantly.

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "The owners accepted my bid…it's mine as soon as the paperwork's done."

His smile widened. "Congratulations!"

"And…" she continued happily, "that developer guy made an offer on my old house, too. He said the location was, and I quote, 'fabulous'.""

"That's definitely worth celebrating," he told her. "How 'bout I pick you up after work and we take the bike out?"

"Back up to that beach?"

He chuckled at the hopefulness in her voice. _We did have a good time up there._ "Sounds good to me. I'm off at eight tonight."

"I'll be ready."

And she was when he pulled into Amanda's driveway later that evening, carrying his helmet in one hand and a new, smaller one in the other.

"I brought you a present," he winked when she answered the door.

She took the new helmet from him and grinned. "One of my very own."

"That other one didn't really fit, even with your hair tucked up in it," he explained. "I want you to be safe when you ride with me."

_The gun, the helmet…I wonder if he realizes how much of his life he's sharing with me._ "Well, I'm all set now."

Once the traffic cleared away, Tim pushed the bike faster this time up the A1A than he had the last, and Allyson hung on just a little bit tighter, enjoying the rush the added velocity brought. She released him and stretched when they hit the sand, unsnapping the clasp on her helmet to let her hair loose.

When they dismounted from the motorcycle, she ran a hand through her long locks. "Have I told you how much I love that ride?"

He chuckled, noting the light in her eyes as she spoke. "I think I got the idea." He led her down the beach, watching her as she watched the waves roll in and the stars twinkle overhead. "So tell me about the closing on the houses."

She flashed him a smile. "I'm signing the papers on the old one Tuesday, and for the new one on Thursday. The developer's offer is enough to cover what I still owe on my mortgage and leave with me a decent down payment on the new house. I can even hire a moving service this time, instead of moving everything myself."

"Good," he commented. "I'm glad that part work out for you."

"There are some things that I don't want the movers handling," she continued, "so I'll be moving those myself when the time comes. And of course I have to pack, so there's still a lot of work to do."

"Let me know when you want to start packing," he told her easily, "so I can make sure I don't have to work."

Her smile softened. _I didn't even have to ask him to be there with me. _"I was thinking maybe tomorrow—you know, get it over with."

"Have you been back to the house since the attack?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "No. My father was the one to go back and get the things I needed, and the Realtor handled the showing whenever someone wanted to see it. My neighbors have been taking care of any yard work that needs to be done, so I haven't had to worry about that either."

"Well, tomorrow I'm off work at six…we can grab something to eat before we head over, and we'll just take our time while we're there."

Her soft smile returned to her lips. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

His hand came to rest on the small of her back, the tone of his voice conveying the sentiment he couldn't express in mere words. "You make it easy to be one."

———

The next night he picked her up again on the motorcycle and sped over to her little house, parking the bike in the empty driveway. He helped her off, out of courtesy and affection now rather than medical necessity, and walked with her to the back door where she halted, catching the sight of the scratches on the doorframe.

"This is how he got in," she observed quietly.

Tim frowned, imagining Aaron Polanski working on the door to gain access to his intended quarry. "This is how he got in."

She took a slow, deep breath and slid her key into the new lock her father had installed, noting the black fingerprint powder that still lingered on the old doorknob. Her hands started to shake as she opened the door, and she closed her eyes briefly to try and steady herself. By the time she opened them a warm pressure had enveloped her left hand, comforting and strong, and she felt her resolve returning. Squeezing Tim's hand in return, she crossed the threshold and stepped into the kitchen, slowly sweeping her eyes over the room, shuddering at the alien feeling her home now possessed.

He watched her pause again, saw her muscles stiffen as she ran through the possible scenarios of the attack in her mind, trying to match them up with her foggy recollections. She held tightly to his hand, her fingers cold against his skin despite the heat that had built up without the air conditioner running, but her facial features were set in determination.

"Tell me how it happened," she instructed quietly, turning her blue eyes on him.

He squinted at her in surprise and confusion. "What?"

"Tell me what Aaron Polanski did," she clarified. "He wasn't very specific at his allocution, and I want to know what happened the night he broke in."

His dark eyes were filled with concern, silently questioning her request. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod in reply, her steadfast gaze indicating that she knew exactly what she was asking.

He exhaled sharply before answering. "Okay," he relented, running his thumb over her hand. "He, uh, broke in through the back door there, using something flat and metallic judging by the markings—probably a crowbar or screwdriver." His mind retreated back to the early morning call-out and the crime scene photos he'd taken, retracing Polanski's steps. "He came through the kitchen and dining room into the living room…" Moving with her through the house, he pressed his lips together in an effort to hide the disgust that began to manifest itself on his face. "He stayed here a while, looking through your things—I found powder from his latex gloves on some of your knickknacks, on the stereo, the bookshelves."

She winced at the thought of her attacker going over her possessions, brushing her free hand over some of the now-clean objects as though offering them comfort, but didn't stop Tim as he continued.

"When he was done in the living room, he, uh, headed for your bedroom."

Together they walked across the soft carpet toward the scene of the attack. Through the open door Allyson could see her empty bed frame sitting in the middle of the side wall, the mattress and box springs having been discarded when Crime Scene Cleanup couldn't get all of the blood out. She drew closer to Tim, her proximity to him helping her keep her cool as he spoke. Reading his face, his body language, told her the small distance between them had the identical effect on him.

"He stopped here," he pointed to the doorframe. "I found some fibers from his shirt where he leaned up against the frame here, to…" He pursed his lips a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. "…to watch you sleep."

Biting her lower lip, she reached for Tim with her free hand, wrapping her arm around his while maintaining a firm grip on his hand. "Then what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard, his long eyelashes sweeping down over his cheeks as he stared at the carpet, seeing in his mind's eye the large blood pool that had formed where Allyson had laid, mustering the last of her energy to call for help. "Then…he pulled out the knife…" His facial muscles twitched with grief and anger, and he stopped again to gather himself. "He hit the mattress three times, and your pillow twice," he told her, purposely neglecting to mention the number of strikes that had hit their intended target, "probably because you fought with him—threw him off balance." He reached for her again, both hands now clasping hers firmly as he steeled himself for the rest of the story. "When he was done, he dragged himself off your bed and tracked your blood back out through the living room and dining room, and out the kitchen door. He left you," Tim continued, his voice becoming hard, "to bleed to death in your own bed."

Allyson watched the patchy memories march through her mind, and the shaking that had begun upon entering the house blossomed now into full-blown tremors.

"After a few minutes, you pulled yourself…off of the bed," Tim reminded her, his words coming at a choppy pace now, "and knocked the phone…down…off the night stand. Somehow…losing all that blood…you managed to…to call 9-1-1…and stayed alive," his voice cracked and he nearly chocked on the word, "long enough…for the paramedics…to get you to the hospital."

She bowed her head against his shoulder and he could feel her warm tears begin to soak through the material of his shirt. His arms immediately went around her, holding her close against him, struggling with his own tears as he gently stroked her hair. Her fingers dug into his back, clutching the white cotton fabric in angry fists as she cried for the first time since the attack, the anger and fear and anguish pouring out of her in his embrace.

———

After the initial walkthrough, Allyson and Tim instinctively took steps to make subsequent visits less painful, always entering the house hand in hand, working close together as they packed and cleaned, each one keeping an eye on the other so neither became overwhelmed. Over the course of two weeks they managed to pack her entire life into a series of boxes, bags, and laundry baskets, arranging them all in distinct piles for the moving company. On the designated day, the movers arrived and hauled away the furniture and the majority of the other items, but a few were too delicate or close to Allyson's heart to be handled by strangers, so when the movers had finished she and Tim took over.

He rode with her this time in the small moving truck she had rented, leaving his motorcycle in the driveway at the new place to await their return. Deciding it best to jump right in, the two of them began carrying her remaining possessions out to the truck, with Tim more often than not taking a heavy box from Allyson's grasp and insisting she get something lighter.

"The doctor says I'm good as new," she reminded him on one trip.

"I know," he conceded with a neutral expression on his face. "I just want to make sure you're not too tired to make dinner when we get to the new house."

That had earned him a playful swat and a cheerful laugh. "Well if I'm cooking, then that leaves only one of us to move the furniture into place," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "The movers just brought it in and left it."

"I'll work up an appetite," he quipped, finding a place for the box in the truck.

She patted his arm and smiled sweetly. "Then I'll order _two_ pizzas."

When the last items were secured, Tim reached up and pulled the sliding door down the back of the truck, locking it into place. Allyson stood in the driveway a few feet away, her eyes slowly trailing over her little house, memories both good and bad parading through her mind.

Tim slid his arm around her and drew her to him without speaking, giving her the opportunity to say good-bye to her home. He heard her sigh softly, felt her hand slip inside his and squeeze affectionately, and his heart swelled. _I'm glad I was here for this._

After a few moments she nodded gently and released him, and he took his cue. "Shall we?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "On to the new place." After only a few steps she stopped in her tracks, suddenly worried. "Tim, where are my tulips? We spent all that time digging them out of the flowerbed—I can't leave them here…"

"I got 'em," he told her reassuringly. "They're riding in the front seat of the truck with us."

"Where I can keep an eye on them," she returned, satisfied.

Into the cab of the truck they climbed, slamming the doors shut in order to latch them. Turning the key in the ignition, Tim glanced out of the corner of his eye at Allyson as she tended to her plants, and a contented smile formed on his lips. _The house hunting, the packing…I wonder if she realizes how much of her life she's sharing with me._


	15. New Home

A/N: It's moving day for Allyson and our favorite CSI is there to help her. Cuteness and great visuals abound ;-)

* * *

Unloading the truck at the new house seemed to go faster than loading it had, and in no time the contents of the little moving van had been transported inside, adding to the piles the professional movers had left. Pizza was ordered, as promised, and Tim and Allyson began the task of arranging the furniture in the living room while they awaited its arrival.

The doorbell rang in the midst of carrying the couch from one side of the living room to the other, and—after carefully setting the heavy piece down—Allyson moved to answer it.

"Finally," Tim breathed, dropping onto the cushions. "I'm starving."

"When are you not?" she quipped. Paying quickly for their order and returning to the couch with it, she plopped down beside him. "Today, though, you've definitely earned the right to eat as much of whatever you want."

"You've been working pretty hard yourself," he reminded her, "even with me trying to make you take it easy."

That earned him a smile. "One thing you'll have to learn, Tim, is that I very rarely take it easy when I'm healthy. I mean, I can be laid back, quiet even, but when I've got things to do—"

"—you're a woman on a mission," he finished between bites. "I think I'm starting to get that now."

She nodded, pulling a breadstick in half. "You're like that too, y'know," she told him.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm. You're calmer about it than I am—at least on the outside—but I can tell how driven you are."

He thought that one over. "You can tell, huh?"

"Well," she hedged, "I think I can tell. I guess I don't really know for sure what you're thinking unless you say it out loud."

He shook his head. "Now there you're wrong," he declared. "You can absolutely tell what I'm thinking without me saying a word. You do it all the time."

"I do?"

"Yes," he confirmed with a definitive nod. "You always know when I'm going to call, you see right through my story any time I check up on you, you seem to know when I'm having a bad day before I say anything about it, and," his eyes darted around the room, settling on his lap as his voice took on a more tender tone, "you understand how much I care about you without me having to tell you." He let his statement hang in the air a moment before speaking again, noticing how her smile softened at his words. "Because we both know that if I tried to say how I felt in words, I'd screw it all up."

She laughed, lightening the mood again. "That makes two of us—I was never good at speaking from the heart. So it's a good thing you can read me as well as you say I read you, or we'd both be in trouble."

"I can read you?" There was more surprise in his voice than he meant to show.

"Of course you can," she assured him, making sure his dark eyes found her blue ones. "You always know what I need—a touch, the sound of your voice, a long drive on the bike, a laugh, a chance to shoot paper bad guys…you always know."

They were quiet again, holding one another's gaze for a long moment, until Tim broke the silence. "I guess we were lucky to have found each other, then," he said tenderly. "Despite the circumstances."

"Yes." Her fingers slipped inside his and she squeezed affectionately. "We definitely were."

The conversation continued easily as they finished eating, with Tim helping Allyson gather up the leftovers and carry them into the kitchen. When she bent down to dig through the boxes looking for aluminum foil to wrap the pizza in, he slipped out to the moving truck one more time, returning to the house with a small overnight bag.

Walking out into the living room, she eyed him curiously. "What are you doing?"

He dropped the bag casually onto a chair. "Crashing on your couch," he replied matter-of-factly.

"You are?" Her hands went to her hips and she cocked an eyebrow at him, smothering a smile. _Is he…?_

"I just thought new house, new noises…" His voice trailed off, but she knew where he was going.

"I don't need a babysitter, Tim," she told him gently.

"I know that, Ally," he responded, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm not babysitting."

_He is_. She smiled inwardly._ He's looking after me again—probably read something in my face, and he really does do that well. _"You don't have to stay," she said aloud. "I'll be okay here by myself. And besides, you have to work tomorrow—wouldn't you be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed?"

"Probably," he conceded, pursing his lips. "But this is where I belong tonight."

She didn't say anything in reply, just simply gazed back at him, her inward smile forming outwardly now on her lips. After a moment she turned and began hunting through the boxes at her feet, pulling out bedding articles as she discovered them.

"I guess that means I can stay," he noted dryly.

"Yes," she affirmed, her smile growing, "you can stay."

———

Later that night, Allyson lay in bed unable to sleep, staring at the blank walls around her, listening to the symphony of foreign noises that belonged to this house. Visions of Polanski stalking through her home paraded through her mind, but she was getting better at suppressing them and managed to push them away for the most part. She tried focusing on something calming and her eyes fell on the potted tulips she had placed on the window sill, the yellow and orange markings standing out against the dark red petals in the moonlight.

But the tulips weren't helping tonight, either. Heaving a sigh, she climbed out of bed and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders to fend off the cold of the air conditioner. She made her way down the short hallway toward the kitchen, thinking that a glass of water—if she could find the glasses—might divert her attention long enough to relax her into sleepiness. But before she reached the kitchen she spotted a shadow by the front door in the living room, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar space. After a moment she realized that her eyes were merely adjusting to the difference in light, and the shadow wasn't a shadow at all.

She smiled as the dark patch came into focus. Tim's well-worn black boots sat next to a laundry basket that hadn't yet been unpacked, his gun in its holster and his badge beside them, reminding her that their owner was with her in the flesh tonight as well as in spirit. She moved quietly into the living room and over to the couch intending to check on her sleeping friend, but found a very alert pair of brown eyes staring up at her instead.

He drew his eyebrows together at the sight of her. "What are you doing up?"

"Can't sleep," she told him, making her way around to the front of the couch.

"Me either," he confessed, sitting up.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, noting the goosebumps forming on his arms and the shiver that passed through his body. "Cold?"

"Yeah," he replied with mock irritation. "Somebody cranked up the A/C before we went to bed."

"Sorry," she chuckled, extending half her blanket to him. "I can't sleep if it's too warm."

He pulled the blanket around him with one arm and slid the other around Allyson, drawing her closer. "All those years of northern weather," he commented. "Nice cool springs and falls, cold winters…even a decent summer night once in a while. Your body gets used to it."

"You sound as though you speak from experience," she told him.

He nodded. "I do. I still like to sleep with the windows open in January, when all the locals think it's cold."

"Good man," she smiled, patting his knee.

He reached for the TV remote, hitting the power button and flipping through the channels. "Good woman," he responded, "for calling the cable company ahead of time. At least we can watch TV while we're not sleeping."

She scooted even closer, curling her knees up and resting her head on his shoulder. "A hundred and forty channels, but there's nothing on," she commented in return.

"I bet we could find a _Jeopardy! _rerun on the Game Show Network…"

———

The sunlight streaming through the large picture window partially woke Allyson from her slumber the next morning. She came back to consciousness slowly, a warm, safe feeling enveloping her as she lay under the blankets. Her eyes were still closed, her brain screaming that she hadn't slept long enough yet and begging her to give in and drift off again. The regular breathing close beside her reminded her, though, that she wasn't the only one in the house this morning and she pried open her heavy lids. She found herself tucked between the high back of the couch and Tim's body, his arm draped protectively over her hip, his hand nestled in the small of her back.

_No wonder I feel safe_, she smiled.

She reached up slowly to the end table, groping around for the alarm clock she had set for Tim to make sure he got up in time for work. When her hand found a hard, rectangular object she grabbed it and brought it into view, careful not to wake him.

Six eighteen. Twelve minutes before it was set to go off.

Replacing the clock and shifting her attention back to Tim, her eyes swept over his sleeping form, a smile growing on her lips. His skin was pale except for the dark stubble grown in along his jaw, his lips a bright red in contrast. It was his eyes, though, that always fascinated her the most, and did so even now when they were closed. She studied his eyelashes, thinking how they should have feminized his face because of their length and thickness, but that somehow they enhanced his every expression instead.

_Maybe that's why I learned to read him so well,_ she thought, brushing a finger along his cheek in a feather-light caress. _Because his eyes are so expressive._

Her thought was interrupted by the long eyelashes blinking open, revealing a pair of eyes the shade of dark chocolate. They struggled to focus on her, trying to make sense of the picture before them.

"'Mornin'," she smiled.

Tim drew his eyebrows together, muddled confusion written on his face. "What time is it?"

"'Bout twenty after six," she told him. "You still have a few minutes before you have to get up."

"Good," he exhaled, closing his eyes again briefly. "'Cause I'm not ready to get up yet."

"Me either," she agreed, "even though every muscle in my body is sore from sleeping on this couch."

He chuckled a little, his voice heavy with early morning gruffness. "I'll be walking around like an eighty-year-old man all day today," he complained good-naturedly.

"I'm glad you stayed, though," she told him, playing absently with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I slept pretty well for a change, in spite of the couch."

He ran a hand over her back, twisting a finger absently in her long brown curls. "Me too, actually."

"Yeah, no late-night phone calls waking you up," she joked lightly.

"Nope," he agreed. "Just a little snoring."

She sat up quickly, the blankets slipping from her shoulders. "I don't snore!"

Tim's smile spread slowly across his face. "You sure?" he asked from his pillow.

"Yes," she retorted, swatting him playfully. "Can you say the same thing?"

The smile faded a bit as he thought her question over. "I think so," he decided. Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "At least, for your sake, I hope so."

She rolled her eyes in mock irritation. "Then let's hope this sleeping-on-the-couch thing doesn't become a habit for us."

He pulled himself to a sitting position and swung his feet over the side of the couch, throwing a glance back at her and winking. "For your sake and for mine."


	16. Settling In

A/N: I have some good news and some bad news to deliver with this chapter. The bad news first, of course to get it out of the way: I'm afraid our little story has come to an end here, or should I say, this _phase_ of the story has come to an end. Ally and Tim have come a long way since their first meeting, haven't they :-) And they still have a long way to go yet, which brings me to the good news. I'm working on a sequal to this called _To Be With You_ that will continue with the next phase of our favorite pair's relationship. Look for the first chapter of that sometime over the weekend, before I leave for Florida (and, incidently, a stop in Miami, which should be interesting!). Until then, enjoy the last chapter of this...

* * *

Friday morning, six days after moving into her new house, Allyson opened her eyes at the sound of urgent beeping coming from her alarm clock. This time, however, she wasn't surprised at the position she found herself in. Her head lay on Tim's shoulder, her body nestled between his and the back of the couch again, his arm wound around her waist, they way they had woken up together every morning that week. 

_You'd think that we'd have learned our lesson after the first night_, she smiled, reaching over to shut off the alarm. _But he keeps sleeping on my couch and I keep trying to sleep in my own bed, and every single night I end up falling asleep out here with him in front of the TV._

Tim groaned beside her. "You set the alarm too early," he mumbled, only half-conscious.

"Nope," she told him slowly, her brain still foggy with sleep as she sat up. "It's five thirty."

"It's still dark out," he grumbled, turning onto his side and burying his face in the pillow.

She chuckled, rubbing his arm to rouse him. "You didn't even open your eyes."

He sighed heavily and rolled carefully onto his back again, stubbornly keeping his brown eyes closed. "I don't need to."

"Well, you can stay here a few more minutes, but I have to get in the shower," she informed him. Rising carefully from the couch, Allyson climbed over Tim, her smile growing when his fingers trailed across the material of her nightgown until she was out of his reach.

She took his hand in hers and squeezed affectionately before releasing him and heading down the hall to get ready for work. Her touch brought a matching smile to his lips as he lay on the couch listening to her move around the house. When the water from the shower kicked on, he pulled himself reluctantly up and dragged his tired body into the kitchen.

"I might as well make myself useful," he decided. Neither he nor Allyson were big on coffee and he was too sleepy to deal with breakfast, but packing her lunch he could manage. "Might even help wake me up. And," he noted to himself as he puttered around the kitchen, "she has to eat." He wandered around leisurely, going through cupboards in search of items suitable for lunch, trying to remember what she liked and whether or not she had access to a refrigerator once she was at work.

When she reappeared twenty minutes later clad in blue jeans and her blue polo shirt with _Southern High School_ embroidered on the front, he was zipping her nylon lunch bag closed. "Okay," she told him, "your turn."

He looked up at her from the counter, her casual attire inspiring an envious facial expression as he pictured the clothing he would be wearing to court that day. "Did you leave me any hot water this time?"

"Yes," she replied with mock irritation. Then, in a sweeter tone, "And I took your suit out of the garment bag for you, too. You're shirt's a little wrinkled, though."

"Damn," he muttered. "I don't have time—"

"I'll do it," she interrupted with a smile. "It seems I'm a little ahead of schedule now that you made me lunch."

He smiled a small, slightly embarrassed smile in return, running a hand over her back as he passed her on the way to the bathroom. "Thanks," he said in a low voice, leaning close to her ear.

She grinned in reply, heading to the laundry room to dig the iron out one of the boxes yet to be unpacked. Retrieving his shirt from where she'd hung it in her bedroom, she carried it back into the laundry room to iron out the wrinkles. "Expert witnesses have to look the part," she said aloud as she worked. "What is it that Tim always says? It's about appearance. You have to look credible." She finished in only a few minutes, hanging the shirt on the bathroom door on the way to her bedroom to put the finishing touches on her morning routine. When the last pin went into her hair she heard the bathroom door open, then the rustle of fabric when he pulled his shirt from the doorknob. Moments later it was Tim appearing in the doorway this time, fresh from the shower dressed in black pants and matching dress shirt open at the collar, his feet still bare and his hair damp.

"Which tie?" he asked, holding up two for her to see.

She studied them both briefly, then pointed to the one in his right hand. "That one."

"Yeah?"

She went back to the mirror, checking the pins in her hair one more time. "Yep. Simple patterns suit you better," she told him.

He retreated to the bathroom again, meeting her in the living room when they were both ready. "How do I look?"

He held his arms out and turned slowly around, showing off his ensemble complete with black suit coat and polished dress shoes. Allyson found herself wanting to giggle girlishly, but managed to suppress most of it knowing how self-conscious Tim was when he dressed up. When he faced her again, he saw only a bright smile.

"You look great," she answered sincerely. Stepping closer to him, she reached up and adjusted his tie. "Very professional."

He pressed his lips together uncomfortably. "Good. But I still can't wait to get out of this thing."

"As soon as the last bell rings I'll be out the door, and we can go to the range this afternoon," she reminded him patting his chest, "in jeans."

"Yeah," he replied, his voice softening at the thought of spending the afternoon with her.

"Alright, ready?" she asked, grabbing her school bag and her lunch. "You're riding with me today."

"I am?"

"Uh, yeah," she teased. "I didn't iron out all those wrinkles so you could take the bike to work in your suit."

That coaxed a smile out of him. "Good point. Let's go."

———

The sun hung low in the sky when they returned to Allyson's house that evening, Tim's weapon and gun cleaning kit in tow. As was their custom after a session at the firing range, they arranged themselves on the living room floor to disassemble and clean the gun together while they tried to figure out what to eat for dinner. By the end of the ritual they settled on fixing spaghetti at the house rather than getting take-out, with Tim following Allyson into the kitchen, wondering what exactly he should do.

"You sure I need to be in here?" he asked a bit of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"Yes," she answered in a serious voice. "I told you when we looked at this house that participation would be required when I cooked."

"Well, there's a reason why we always order in when we're at my place," he explained, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'm not what you'd call good in the kitchen."

She smiled broadly. "Then it's about time you learned to be." She showed him how to clean and chop the vegetables for the sauce, then moved over to the stove to tend to the meat and pasta.

They worked in relaxed silence for several minutes, Tim casting sidelong glances at Allyson every so often, trying to read her thoughts. Finally he'd had enough guessing. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded without looking up from the stove. "Yeah, why?"

He stopped chopping and turned to face her. "You've been kind of quiet since we left the range. Did you have a bad day at work?"

"Oh no," she shook her head, meeting his gaze. "My kids were fine today in class. I'm all right, Tim, really."

"But something's on your mind, Ally," he pressed gently, stepping closer to her and resting a hand on the small of her back.

A smile formed on her lips. "You really are good at reading me," she conceded. Sighing, she turned toward him, clasping the fingers of his free hand in hers. "I've been quiet because I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that I have to kick you out of my house."

"Oh."

"I love that you stayed here with me all week," she told him, the happiness evident in her voice. "Just having you around makes me feel so safe, and that's still a rare feeling for me since the attack."

"But I can't stay here anymore," he finished for her.

She squeezed his hand warmly. "I need my independence back…I need to face my fears and learn to live in this house alone," she explained softly. "If I don't, then Aaron Polanski wins and I won't let that happen."

"I know you won't, and I won't either." His dark eyes met her blue ones and he smiled. "I just wanted to stay until you were settled in here. I knew you'd tell me when you were ready to be on your own." He lifted his hand from her back and fished a metallic object out of his pocket, handing it to her. "I _am_ going to insist you take this, though, whether you think you need it or not."

She examined the object in her hand, puzzled. "It's a key."

"Yeah, to my apartment," he confirmed, glancing down at it. "I want you to have it, to keep it on your key ring."

"You know I can't reciprocate," she replied quietly. "I'm not ready for _anybody_ to have—"

"I know," he assured her. "That's not what this is about." His hand found her hip, and he made sure to look her in the eyes as he spoke. "You've been to my place enough times that it's familiar, and I know you're comfortable there even without me. If you ever feel threatened or if, God forbid, something happens here at the house, I want you to have somewhere you can go to feel safe."

Closing her fingers around the key, she spontaneously wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly. "You're too good to me," she whispered in his ear.

"Not possible," he answered softly, his arms snaking around her waist in response. He held her for a few moments, reluctantly releasing her only when he began to feel awkward and a little unsure of himself. "Hey, it's not like we're never going to see each other again, right?" he asked, lightening the mood.

"Right," she agreed, taking a halfhearted step back. Then, with more enthusiasm, "'Cause tomorrow's Saturday so I don't have to work, and you have the day off. So how are we going to spend the day?"

He chuckled at how quickly she rolled with the change in the tone of the conversation. "Well," he began, thinking fast on his feet, "there's the usual stuff: movies, restaurants…we can take the bike out for a drive…"

The smile returned to her face as she pictured the two of them doing the activities he listed. Brushing a hand over his arm, she turned back to the stove to tend to the hamburger and spaghetti noodles as they cooked. "Maybe we can go over to the Botanical Gardens in Miami Beach."

"That's a thought—I know how much you like flowers," he winked.

"Or we could hit the Miami Museum of Science," she added, knowing they'd both enjoy that trip, "and walk around downtown a little."

"If it isn't too hot," he reminded her.

She grinned, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "Or too humid."

"So, since this is south Florida, we should probably pick something indoors," he decided.

Watching him speak, she marveled inwardly at how effortlessly their discussion flowed, how much at ease they were with each other, how they'd settled into their friendships so smoothly over the last several weeks. _It's like we'd known each other for years._

"Okay, indoors—so we're back to movies, food, museums…"


End file.
